GIFT   OF 
Elisabeth  Whitney  Putn 


^ 

at  nan  . 


^p  (Eleanor  Kotnlanli 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART. 
THE   RIGHT  TO  BELIEVE. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE 
OF  ART 

Studies  in  Analytical  Esthetics 


BY 

ELEANOR  ROWLAND,  Ph.D. 

Professor  of  Psychology  and  Dean  of  Women 
in  Reed  College 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

^z  Ulitoecjiitie  '^xzH  Cambcibge 


COPYRIGHT,   1913,   BY  ELEANOR  ROWLAND 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  September  iqi^ 


TO 

PROFESSOR  HUGO  MUNSTERBERG 

THE  HONORED  TEACHER  WITH  WHOM  I  FIRST 

BEGAN  THE  STUDY  OF  ^ESTHETICS 


412480 


PREFACE 

To  a  thoughtful  person  who  spends  any 
portion  of  his  life  in  the  contemplation  of 
beautiful  things,  it  must  occur  at  one  time  or 
another  that  there  is  a  certain  strangeness  in 
grouping  under  one  head  such  an  enormous 
variety  of  objects  as  we  find  in  our  world  of 
Art,  and  labeling  them  with  one  term.  What 
common  factor  unites  such  diverse  creations 
as  a  poem  and  a  cathedral,  a  song  and  a 
statue,  and  makes  it  possible  and  intelligible 
to  call  them  all  art  products  ? 

The  answers  to  this  question  have  been 
many.  The  problem  has  been  attacked  from 
standpoints  that  diverge  so  widely  that  the 
discussions  have  easily  failed  to  meet  on  any 
issue.  From  the  sociologist,  the  scientist,  and 
the  philosopher,  to  the  practical  artist,  repre- 
vii 


PREFACE 

senting  every  type  of  training  and  habit  of 
mind,  have  come  more  or  less  comprehen- 
sive surveys  of  the  various  arts,  and  at- 
tempts to  define  the  meaning  of  Art  as  a 
whole. 

The  historian  is  preeminently  interested 
in  what  Art  has  been,  and  the  reformer  in 
what  it  should  be.  But  to  the  philosopher 
or  psychologist,  the  essential  enigma  is  — 
what  is  it?  That  objects  presenting  diversity 
of  material  as  wide  as  the  world  affords,  and 
reflecting  activities  coextensive  with  man's 
whole  life,  can  with  any  accuracy  be  brought 
into  one  group,  and  can  produce  certain 
characteristic  states  of  mind,  is  indeed  ex- 
traordinary. More  than  this,  that  certain 
materials  should  have  been  selected  as  most 
appropriate  for  clothing  certain  ideas,  so  that 
one  idea  flies  to  a  garment  of  stone  and  an- 
other to  one  of  words,  yet  both  finished 
products  remain  art,  is  a  puzzle  that  cannot 
viii 


PREFACE 

fail  to  tease  the  mind  of  one  equally  alive 
to  the  facts  and  to  their  apparent  inconsist- 
ency. 

That  many  roads  to  the  problem  suggest 
themselves  is  evident  enough  from  the  num- 
ber that  have  been  chosen.  There  is,  how- 
ever, a  directness  in  the  method  of  a  certain 
great  writer  on  aesthetics  which  commends 
itself  by  its  simplicity,  and  in  his  case  at 
least,  by  the  results.  Aristotle  set  out  for 
an  explanation  of  tragedy  as  a  form  of  art. 
What  common  factor  makes  a  complete 
tragedy  of  this  or  that  impersonation  of 
character?  To  answer  this  question  he  lis- 
tened to  the  best  tragedies.  He  spent  time 
in  their  presence,  observing  what  com- 
posed them,  and  exactly  what  made  up  his 
own  state  of  mind  as  a  spectator.  He  was 
then  able  to  formulate  an  exposition  of 
tragedy  which  has  never  been  surpassed.  If 
he  had  left  us  a  similar  analysis  of  the  other 
ix 


PREFACE 

arts,  such  as  that  of  sculpture  with  a  dissect- 
ing of  the  "sculpturesque"  emotions,  the 
essentials  of  music  and  the  common  factor 
in  all  musical  appreciation,  much  later  work, 
and  above  all  the  present  one,  would  not  have 
been  necessary. 

Some  of  the  arts  have  developed  since  his 
day,  so  that  any  ancient  formula  must  have 
been  in  any  case  outgrown,  but  it  is  as  a 
humble  disciple  of  Aristotle's  method  that 
the  writer  has  conceived  the  following  stud- 
ies. They  represent  an  attempt  to  limit  the 
provinces  of  certain  arts,  the  ideas  which 
these  arts,  better  than  any  other  of  man's 
creation,  can  express,  and  the  characteristic 
mental  states  that  are  aroused  in  appreciat- 
ing them  —  states  which,  like  the  pity  and 
fear  of  tragedy,  must  be  aroused  if  an  object 
is  to  fulfill  the  demands  of  its  own  particular 
art.  What  one  art  may  do  and  what  it  can 
never  do  remain  still  as  obscure  in  many 

X 


PREFACE 

cases  as  if  Lessing  had  never  set  the  ex- 
ample of  a  masterly  setting  of  limits. 

This  group  of  studies  makes  no  pretense 
to  cover  the  field  of  the  fine  arts.  It  repre- 
sents merely  the  crystallization  of  some  of 
the  results  of  four  years*  teaching  of  aesthet- 
ics, and  the  arts  which  find  no  place  in  this 
analysis  have  been  omitted  because  their 
treatment  did  not  fall  into  a  length  and  char- 
acter coordinate  with  the  other  essays. 

Portland,  Oregon, 
May  I,  1913. 


CONTENTS 

I. 

Sculpture 

I 

II. 

The  Minor  Arts 

47 

III. 

Painting 

.     83 

IV. 

Music 

III 

V. 

Art  and  Nature      . 

•  153 

I 

SCULPTURE 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE 
OF  ART 


SCULPTURE 

That  our  acquaintance  with  the  world  often 
dulls  our  appreciation  of  its  real  meaning 
has  been  a  commonplace  since  the  begin- 
ning of  speculative  thought.  It  was  the  task 
of  Socrates,  in  Athens,  to  demand  of  his 
countrymen,  somewhat  too  little  aware  of 
the  mystery  of  things,  that  they  define  the 
nature  of  the  simplest  objects  and  give  rea- 
sons for  the  most  everyday  pursuits.  By 
exposing  their  ignorance  in  the  matters  of 
which  they  were  most  certain,  he  thus  roused 
them  to  a  more  vigorous  philosophy.  It  is 
profitable  now  and  then,  for  us,  as  well,  to 
3  . 


THE/SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

make  a  restatement  of  our  old  ideas,  to 
"break  through  the  crust  of  familiarity  which 
tends  to  be  deposited  around  well-known 
things,"  and  to  be  as  it  were  our  own  Socratic 
teachers. 

Let  us  suppose  ourselves,  then,  deprived 
of  all  acquaintance  with  sculpture  as  a  fine 
art,  and  for  the  sake  of  an  unprejudiced  point 
of  view  let  us  imagine  ourselves  as  entering  a 
gallery  of  statues  for  the  first  time.  It  is  all 
to  be  a  surprise  to  us.  Everything  will  seem 
astonishing.  There  is  to  be  an  impartiality 
of  emphasis  as  if  we  had  succeeded  in  com- 
bining the  sensitiveness  of  a  mature  appre- 
ciation with  the  candid  curiosity  of  a  child. 

Our  questions  when  we  are  to  be  intro- 
duced to  any  new  experience  naturally  fall 
into  certain  types.  We  ask,  "What  kind  of 
thing  is  it  to  be?  "  "Are  we  to  see,  hear,  or 
feel  it?"  "What  is  it  made  of?"  "Why 
was  it  made?"  "What  are  we  to  do  with 
4 


SCULPTURE 

it  ?  **  "  How  must  we  act  when  brought  into 
its  presence  ?  "  —  and  with  such  questions  on 
our  lips  we  are  ushered  into  a  gallery  of 
sculpture,  and  told  to  find  our  answers  as 
best  we  may. 

We  are  on  the  threshold  of  a  long  room, 
around  the  edges  of  which  are  arranged 
images  of  men  and  animals.  Some  are  cut 
from  marble,  granite,  or  softer  stone,  and 
others  are  molten  out  of  bronze.  They  all 
stand  raised  from  the  floor  on  pedestals,  or 
hang  as  reliefs  upon  the  wall,  but  this  arti- 
ficial isolation  only  serves  to  emphasize  a 
detachment  which  is  already  a  conspicuous 
feature  of  their  whole  attitude.  Here  stands 
a  youth  in  marble,  well  developed,  nude, 
graceful,  and  with  no  apparent  excuse  for 
being,  except  that  he  exhibits  a  fine  ideal 
of  what  a  youth  should  be.  There  stands/ 
another  boy,  similarly  well  developed,  al- 
though his  build  is  somewhat  diflferent,  and 
5 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  poise  of  his  limbs  and  the  direction  of 
his  glance  are  slightly  varied. 

We  pass  from  one  room  to  another,  and 
lining  every  wall  are  quiet  figures:  some 
draped,  some  nude,  some  whole,  some  frag- 
mentary, some  of  marble,  some  of  metal,  some 
alone,  and  some  in  groups.  But  despite  their 
proximity,  no  statue  looks  at  us  or  at  its 
neighbor.  The  room  is  full  of  them,  but  they 
are  solitary  !  Even  when  the  figures  make  up 
one  relief,  and  where  they  are  engaged  in 
actions  which  bind  them  seemingly  together, 
they  are  curiously  alone.  A  lady  takes  jewels 
from  her  handmaiden's  box.  In  a  gentle,  idle 
fashion,  as  if  despite  her  level  glance  she  saw 
neither  box  nor  maiden.  An  old  man  stands 
beside  his  son  —  a  glorious  youth,  who  (since 
this  IS  a  grave  relief)  presumably  has  died, 
although  there  is  no  suggestion  of  death  in 
his  perfect  form.  He  gazes  away  from  his 
father,  just  as  his  father  looks  past  him, 
6 


SCULPTURE 

while  the  dog  at  his  feet  snufFs  for  a  foot- 
print that  he  cannot  find.  We  recall  other 
groups,  where  despite  the  fact  that  centaurs 
and  Lapiths  struggle  for  the  possession  of 
the  women,  the  contest  is  an  impersonal  one. 
Each  Lapith,  each  woman,  is  in  a  world  of 
its  own,  and  carries  with  it  an  air  of  unique 
self-sufficiency,  which  in  a  figure  like  that  of 
the  Olympian  Apollo  is  almost  overpower- 
ing. His  proud  arm  is  extended  over  a 
struggle  which  he  does  not  deign  to  watch, 
and  his  eyes  are  turned  to  a  horizon  in- 
finitely remote.  All  this  is  not  without  its 
effect  upon  an  observer. 

The  atmosphere  does  not  invite  words. 
Apparently  the  question  as  to  what  is  to  be 
done  is  not  in  order.  There  is  nothing  to 
be  done  but  to  look,  perhaps  to  feel  the 
smooth  surface  here  and  there,  and  to  pre- 
serve a  silence  as  of  listening  to  a  voice 
where  no  voice  speaks.  ^ 

7 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

In  other  rooms  are  more  standing  and 
sitting  forms.  One  leans  against  a  pillar, 
another  holds  her  drapery,  one  glances  here, 
another  there.  Their  lines  are  subtly  varied, 
and  the  figures  diflPer  in  being  more  or  less 
free-standing  from  their  background.  But 
all  of  them  are  quite  simple,  and  wholly  un- 
concerned with  us  or  with  each  other.  The 
titles  on  their  marble  bases  read  something 
like  this :  "  Youth  carrying  calf,"  "  Statue 
of  a  woman,"  "  Athena,"  "  Priestess," 
" Youth  leading  sacrificial  cows,"  "Man 
with  musical  instrument,"  "  Nike  binding 
her  sandal,"  "  Seated  goddess."  There  are 
warriors,  too,  and  men  on  horseback.  There 
are  combats  with  animals  and  with  gods. 
But  most  of  the  figures  are  doing  nothing, 
or,  when  an  action  is  introduced,  it  is  of  a 
nature  whose  triviality  one  would  seemingly 
^  resent.  We  do  not  consider  it  the  most  sig- 
nificant act  in  the  world  to  ride  on  a  horse. 
8 


SCULPTURE 

Why  make  a  stone  image  eternally  exploit- 
ing that  act?  It  has  never  seemed  momen- 
tous to  handle  a  necklace,  to  lean  on  a  spear, 
to  hold  drapery,  to  watch  a  lizard,  to  finger 
a  reed ;  but  as  if  even  these  vague  pursuits 
were  too  arduous,  the  actors  perform  them  ^ 
with  serene  indifference,  and  by  far  the 
greater  number  make  no  pretence  to  occu- 
pation, but  stand  without  apology  and  with- 
out concern.  y 

Even  the  animals  have  caught  this  disre- 
gard of  busy-ness.  Many  of  them  are  repre- 
sented in  motion  as  the  human  athletes  had 
been,  but,  as  with  them,  the  motion  is  suc- 
cessful, the  muscular  adaptation  is  secure. 
There  is  in  every  case  an  easy  certainty  as 
to  the  outcome,  which  makes  the  movement, 
however  transitory,  as  stable  as  the  pedestal 
beneath  it.  The  questions  arise.  Why  these 
acres  of  stone  ?  Why  this  monotony  of  sub- 
ject, gods,  men,  and  animals  at  rest  or  in 
9 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

/"  ever-repeated  action  ?  Where  is  the  dramatic 
interest  to  be  found  in  such  successful  move- 
ment, such  calm  joy  and  such  stable  grief? 
Is  not  the  only  excuse  for  these  stones'  ex- 
istence, that  they  represent  life,  and  yet  could 
we  tolerate  such  passionless  society  or  such 
meaningless  pursuits  ? 

We  are  asking  these  questions  because 
we  are  here  to  question  and  not  at  all  be- 
cause we  have  felt  incongruities  in  what  we 
have  seen.  The  trivial,  the  unimportant  has 
affected  us  like  grandeur.  The  lack  of  occu- 
pation in  these  figures  abashes  us  as  no  re- 
proof for  inaction  has  ever  done,  and  our 
separate  restless  efforts  to  understand,  to  in- 
vestigate, to  be  well  informed  —  all  these 
praiseworthy  anxieties  lose  their  customary 
respectable  footing,  and  take  on  a  reversed 
color  of  contempt.  Our  activity  becomes 
shamefaced  before  an  idle  boy  in  stone  who 
N^vplays  with  an  apple  ! 

10 


SCULPTURE 

Our  point  of  view  must  not  be  confused 
with  that  of  the  historian  of  art,  who  informs 
us  that  all  these  actions  were  significant  when 
the  statues  were  chiseled.  It,  of  course,  is/ 
true  that  these  seemingly  unoccupied  maid- 
ens held  a  votive  offering  in  their  hands,  and 
by  their  presence  before  the  temple  reminded 
every  beholder  of  the  donor's  piety.  The 
athletic  figures  commemorated  the  Olympic 
triumphs,  than  which  nothing  could  have  a 
more  serious  meaning  to  a  Greek  mind.  The 
pediment  groups  represented  the  most  stir- 
ring combats  in  the  Greek  mythology,  and 
those  dignified  figures  on  the  Parthenon 
frieze  were  in  the  Pan-Athenaic  procession 
which  of  all  things  stood  for  the  glory  and 
the  culture  of  a  city  dedicated  to  Athena. 
The  historian  would  then  say,  "  If  these 
actions  seem  trivial  to  a  modern  spectator, 
he  has  simply  failed  to  understand  them." 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  Greek 
II 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

sculptor  expressed  in  his  art  the  most  im- 
portant and  profound  ideas  of  his  national 
genius.  But  all  our  observations  neverthe- 
less remain  as  true  as  before.  Even  the 
most  tragic,  the  gayest,  the  most  significant 
thoughts  and  acts  of  life  were  to  the  Greek 
artist  tempered  and  made  subject  to  the  re- 
straint of  things  as  they  are.  He  did  not 
strive  beyond  bounds,  but,  as  has  so  often 
been  said,  he  chose  rather  to  glorify  his  lim- 
its ;  and  because  this  is  also  the  spirit  of 
sculpture,  and  because  thereby  this  universal 
Greek  spirit  and  this  particular  art  have  the 
same  essential  ideal,  the   sculpture   of  the 

y  Greeks  was  their  especial  glory.  All  that 
Greek  artists  did  was  good  in  this  respect 
because,  to  a  certain  degree,  this  doctrine  of 
restraint  is  the  law  of  all  art  and  of  all  life. 
It  is  not,  however,  with  the  other  arts  the 
absolute  requirement  that  it  is  with  sculp- 

.  ture.  Therefore,  although  Greek  architecture 

12 


SCULPTURE 

is  great,  we  can  hardly  say  that  it  is  un- 
equaled.  Greek  painting  —  what  we  know 
of  it  —  is  superb,  but  we  can  hardly  say  that 
later  men  have  not  done  as  much.  Though 
Greek  literature  is  unique  in  its  beauty,  there 
have  been  literary  Titans  who  broke  its  rules 
and  followed  other  models.  But  Greek  sculpr  ^ 
ture  is  not  only  unsurpassed :  it  is  unequaled. 
For  the  world  of  art,  sculpture  is  synonymous 
with  Greek  sculpture  —  and  why  ?  Because 
the  simple  dignity,  the  detachment,  the  es- 
sential preeminence  of  mere  living  lines  and 
movements,  whereas  it  may  not  be  all  of  other 
arts,  is  the  very  kernel  of  sculpture. 

To  the  modern  art-lover,  therefore,  it  is^^ 
absolutely  non-essential  whether  these  fig- 
ures were  at  one  time  religious,  political,  or 
commemorative —  or,  indeed,  whether  they 
signified  anything  whatever.  We  have  lost, 
nothing  from  the  sculpture  of  the  Greeks 
by  embracing  a  different  creed.  Far  from 
13 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

enjoying  their  sculpture  less  than  they,  per- 
haps we  enjoy  it  more  !  If  our  admiration 
of  their  work  is  so  robust,  with  no  admixture 
of  solemnity  from  the  religious  motives  of 
the  sculptors,  we  must  lay  aside  their  mo- 
tives as  non-essential  to  the  spirit  of  the 
work.  In  the  same  way  that  a  statement  of 
the  evolutionary  importance  of  the  scents 
of  flowers  does  not  explain  their  appeal,  so 
an  historic  account  of  the  social  and  religious 
importance  of  Greek  sculpture  is  not  in  the 
least  an  analysis  of  its  essence. 

We  shall  agree,  I  think,  that  it  is  not  in 
point  to  call  a  uniform  experience  accidental. 
That  which  is  inevitably  present,  as  well  as 
the  inevitably  absent  in  all  good  examples 
of  a  given  art,  must  be  regarded  as  the  ex- 
pression of  some  law,  some  deep  demand, 
however  unconscious  were  the  artists  of  their 
obedience  to  it.  We  must  begin,  then,  with 
the  most  incontestable  uniformity  we  have 
14 


SCULPTURE 

noted  in  the  sculpture  gallery,  and  that  will 
be  the  actual  material  from  which  the  statues 
have  been  fashioned. 

We  find  in  any  artistic  expression  that  \ 
some  idea  must  be  presented  in  material  form     -i« 
to  the  senses.  Both  are  essential,  the  idea  and 
the  substance  in  which  it  lives.  There  must 
be  a  harmony  of  the  two,  and  in  no  art  is  it 
so  easy  to  separate  them — to  comprehend 
our  material,  to  name  our  idea  —  as  it  is  in 
sculpture.  We   have  found  that  sculpture 
expresses  itself  in  stone  and  bronze.  These     ^ 
two  materials  have  been  selected  from  all  the 
possible  substances  which  would  have  been 
much  easier  to  work,  and  while  exceptions 
in  the  way  of  wood,  terra-cotta,  and  faience       '^ 
come  at  once  to  mind,  they  are  in  a  certain 
sense  a  class  by  themselves,  which  indicates 
that  they  have  never  been  quite  admitted 
into  the  family  of  sculpture  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  term.  We  have  records  also  of 
15 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

statues  in  gold  and  ivory,  though  none  re- 
main to  testify  of  their  excellence.  Never- 
theless as  we  examine  one  famous  gallery 
after  another,  or  study  sculpture  in  the  orig- 
inal setting  where  that  is  possible,  it  is  plain 
that  porous  stone,  marble,  granite,  basalt, 
and  bronze,  either  plain  or  gilded,  are  the 
materials  to  which  sculpture  has  consecrated 
itself,  more  than  to  any  others.  We  can- 
not call  this  accident,  nor  yet  convention, 
since  it  has  survived  art  periods  of  the  great- 
est originality.  Nor  can  we  call  it  wholly  a 
practical  matter.  Statues  that  must  endure 
the  assaults  of  wind  and  rain  required  un- 
doubtedly a  durable  material.  But  art  forms 
as  well  as  other  matters  adapt  themselves  to 
a  situation,  and  why  should  a  statue  erected 
to  stand  within  a  temple  or  protected  shrine 
be  made  as  stoutly  as  if  it  were  exposed  to 
the  winds  of  heaven  ?  Many  statues  of  an- 
tiquity, and  perhaps  the  greater  number  of 
i6 


SCULPTURE 

sculptures  to-day,  face  the  necessity  of  with- 
standing the  weather  as  little  as  do  pictures 
or  books.  We  demand  a  certain  amount  of 
durability  in  anything,  but  our  pictures  are 
not  painted  to  defy  the  rain  ;  why  should  we 
ask  of  the  sculptor  that  his  material  be  hard 
and  difficult  to  cut,  for  the  sake  of  a  dura- 
bility that  will  never  be  put  to  the  test  ? 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  we  are  not 
presuming  to  say  what  were  the  conscious 
motives  of  different  sculptors  in  using  stone 
for  their  material.  Artists,  as  a  rule,  are  un- 
conscious in  proportion  as  they  are  success- 
ful, and  their  motives  may  have  been,  even 
to  themselves,  apparently  guided  by  conven- 
tion and  practical  considerations  of  all  kinds. 
We  often  think  that  we  are  doing  a  thing 
for  one  reason,  when  to  a  dispassionate  ob- 
server it  is  quite  evident  that  we  are  doing 
it  for  another.  So  it  is  not  the  artist's  task 
to  formulate  why  he  does  this  or  that.  His 
17 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

results  may  often  be  happy  accidents.  But 
it  is  not  as  presumptuous  as  it  may  seem  at 
first,  for  one  interested  in  the  philosophy  of 
art  to  point  out  what  were  the  real  under- 
lying reasons  for  an  aesthetic  choice,  inde- 
pendently of  the  artist's  careless  account  of 
himself  We  are  not,  therefore,  in  the  least 
assuming  that  we  know  the  reason  which 
Phidias,  Praxiteles,  and  Michael  Angelo 
gave  to  themselves  for  using  the  sculptural 
material  that  they  did.  If  they  say,  or  if  any 
one  says,  that  they  did  it  merely  from  acci- 
dent or  convention  or  what  you  will,  we 
can  only  say,  as  we  do  to  any  other  incor- 
rect introspection  from  one  unused  to  psy- 
chological analysis,  "  We  know  better  !  To 
dissect  mental  states  is  our  business,  not 
yours,  and  the  account  of  an  artist's  mind 
as  it  reveals  itself  in  his  work,  which  is  his 
life,  is  far  more  accurate  than  an  introspection, 
in  which  he  is  not  trained  and  but  scantily 
i8 


SCULPTURE 

interested."  Towering  geniuses  in  sculpture 
would  not  have  followed  a  convention  in  ma- 
terial, when  its  reason  for  being  was  gone. 
That  is  not  their  way.  If  with  other  wide 
variations  in  style,  great  sculptors  have  kept 
to  a  constant  uniformity  in  material,  even 
though  they  have  protested  that  it  was  quite 
accidental,  it  is  obvious  that  there  is  an  in- 
herent harmony  between  their  ideas  and  that 
material.  If  they  cannot  detect  such  a  con- 
scious demand,  they  are  simply  poor  psy- 
chologists. 

No  doubt  much  of  the  poverty  of  aesthetic 
research  arises  from  the  fact  that  psychol- 
ogists and  philosophers  attempt  to  theorize 
in  an  art  field  where  they  have  no  appreci- 
ation. But  that  is  only  half  the  story.  The 
other  difficulty  is  that  artists  and  art-lovers, 
who  have  the  appreciation,  attempt  introspec- 
tion when  they  are  not  trained.  How  natural, 
then,  that  misapprehension  should  arise  I 
19 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

Our  demand  for  stone  or  metal,  aside  from 
their  inherent  beauty,  is  not  therefore  merely 
because  of  a  practical  advantage,  however 
conspicuous  that  advantage  may  be  in  out- 
door sculpture.  We  must  make,  nevertheless, 
a  very  careful  distinction  between  being  dur- 

/  able,  and  looking  durable.  Undoubtedly  the 
suggestion  of  permanence  which  stone  car- 
ries with  it  is  a  very  important  part  of  the 
sculptural  idea.  This  would  be  as  potent  a 

V  factor  in  indoor  as  in  outdoor  sculpture.  Is 
it  not  true  that  the  idea  of  ageless  perma- 
nence still  breathes  from  a  battered  Victory 
in  stone,  even  when  practical  durability  has 
obviously  been  found  wanting  ? 

Furthermore,  some  critics  have  suggested 
that  just  the  difficulty  in  cutting  gives  the 
abiding  charm  to  sculpture.  We  scorn  the 
easy  victory  over  wax  or  clay,  and  only  honor 
a  work,  the  enormous  difficulty  of  which  has 
been  overcome  in  conflict  with  a  resisting 

20 


SCULPTURE 

medium.  This  supposition  stands  the  test 
of  reason  even  less  than  the  other.  A  diffi- 
cult technic  is  noble  just  so  long  as  it  is  nec- 
essary for  a  result,  but  exploited  for  its  own 
sake,  it  is  trivial.  A  painter  who  uses  incon- 
venient brushes  from  choice ;  a  piano  player 
who  exhibits  extraordinary  muscular  control 
in  playing  all  his  music  with  crossed  hands, 
excites  our  laughter.  A  sculptor  who  chose 
a  difficult  material  to  show  off  his  chiseling 
powers,  when  a  softer  or  lighter  one  would 
serve  his  purpose  as  well,  would  merit  the 
astonished  interest  which  we  give  to  a  trick- 
ster, but  not  to  an  artist.  Even  the  sugges- 
tion that  the  cost  of  rare  stones  excites  our 
admiration  falls  to  the  ground  when  we  re- 
member that  the  rarer  colored  marbles  have 
not  been  chosen  for  the  finest  sculpture.  The 
more  beautiful  the  stone  in  itself,  the  greater 
delight  it  affords  us  as  stone,  but  even  a 
duller  stone  is  no  less  sculpture, 

21 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

I  am  Inclined  to  think  that  the  quality  of 
stone  which  we  are  all  the  time  unconsciously 
demanding  is  not  so  much  its  durability,  cer- 
tainly not  its  difficulty  in  manipulation  or 
its  cost,  but  above  all  things  its  weight,  and 
connected  with  this  —  its  size.  If  the  statue 
has  too  fragile  a  surface,  it  is  inconvenient ; 
if  it  cannot  stand  the  weather,  it  must  be 
brought  indoors ;  if  the  stone  is  dull  granite, 
instead  of  translucent  marble,  it  is  not  so 
beautiful ;  if  it  is  of  a  softer  sandstone,  the 
chiseler  cannot  be  so  subtle  ;  if  it  is  of  bronze, 
the  technic  of  construction  is  a  different  one. 
But  if  it  dwindles  in  size  sufficiently,  and 
thereby  in  weight,  it  may  still  be  beautiful, 
but  it  is  not  sculpture.  It  is  a  cameo,  a  coin, 
a  gem,  a  carving,  a  lovely  object  still ;  but 
it  is  sculpture,  strictly  speaking,  no  longer. 
^Size  and  weight  are  so  bound  up  in  each 
other  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine  which 
is  the  more  fundamental  of  the  two.  If  the 

22 


SCULPTURE 

statue  were  of  required  size,  but  of  some 
material  so  light  that  no  feeling  of  solidity 
accompanied  it,  we  should  call  it  a  poor  se- 
lection of  material,  and  hence  poor  sculpture. 
Even  though  wooden  statues  show  a  high 
degree  of  beauty,  and  certainly  have  a  greater 
ease  of  manipulation,  they  have  never  ex- 
pressed the  sculptural  ideal  par  excellence.  Is 
not  this  the  reason  ?  However  permanent 
they  may  be  from  their  sheltered  location, 
they  never  look  entirely  so ;  and  however 
great  their  subject-matter,  the  pressure  of 
their  lesser  weight  does  not  carry  so  profound 
a  message.  On  the  other  hand,  as  a  marble 
or  a  bronze  dwindles  in  size,  it  does  not  lose 
its  beauty,  but  its  classification.  It  may  be 
beautiful  still,  but  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
term  it  is  not  a  statue.  Thus  we  do  not  call 
coins  and  cameos,  statuettes  and  figurines, 
sculpture,  without  some  modification  in  the 
term.  By  the  very  diminutive  endings  of 
23 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  words,  we  imply  a  variation  from  a 
larger  standard.  How  large  or  how  small  is 
a  different  question.  Just  as  Aristotle  said 
of  tragedy,  that  it  must  be  an  action  "of  a 
certain  magnitude,"  so  we  may  say  of  sculp- 
ture, that  other  things  being  equal,  a  certain 
size  limit  is  implied.  Life-size  is  not  required, 
for  the  figures  of  the  Parthenon  frieze,  the 
Orpheus  relief,  and  the  Mourning  Athena 
are  far  smaller  than  that.  It  seems,  however, 
as  if  reliefs  could  be  smaller  than  free-stand- 
ing statues,  and  still  remain  sculpturesque. 
The  stone  or  metal  background  of  a  relief 
gives  the  figures  their  own  scale,  and  lessens 
the  likelihood  of  comparing  their  size  with 
that  of  neighboring  objects.  In  addition 
to  that,  the  background  brings  with  it  its 
weight ;  and  I  believe  that  we  have  not  an- 
alyzed the  experience  correctly  if  we  leave 
out  the  appeal  of  that  quiet,  heavy  slab  of 
substance,  apparently  so  ignored.  Hangings 
24 


SCULPTURE 

of  silk  or  velvet  behind  a  free-standing  statue 
also  serve  to  throw  the  figures  into  relief, 
but  they  do  not  tell  the  same  story.  Figures 
of  the  same  size  as  those  in  the  Parthenon 
frieze,  against  any  but  their  own  background, 
would  be  a  different  matter.  Thus  even  the 
tiny  reliefs  of  coins  gain  size  from  their  metal 
grounds,  and  do  not  so  speak  of  smallness 
as  do  free-standing  figures  which  are  even 
larger. 

We  cannot  definitely  set  a  limit  for  size ; 
and,  moreover,  at  this  point  we  may  again 
come  into  difliculties  with  the  archaeologist. 
Sculpture  is  always  governed  by  the  same 
laws,  no  matter  what  its  size.  That  which 
the  Greeks  expressed  in  colossal  statues, 
they  carved  upon  their  gems.  Their  athletes 
were  of  the  same  type  in  marble  larger  than 
life,  and  in  bronze  three  inches  high.  Here 
again  our  critic  is  perfectly  right.  The  point 
of  difference  lies  only  in  what  we  are  to 
25 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

call  sculpture.  We  are  analyzing  what  we 
consider  to  be  the  quintessence  of  the  art, 
not  what  was  intended  to  be  such.  In  the 
same  fashion,  when  we  use  the  term  "  art " 
in  general,  we  mean  the  best,  the  most 
widely  accepted  forms  of  every  type,  not 
those  forms  which  in  one  way  or  another 
have  failed  to  be  the  best.  Now  that  the 
Greeks  did  not  always  adapt  their  ideas  to 
the  absolute  size  of  the  object  is  true,  but  it 
is  their  weakness  and  not  their  strength. 
The  little  gold  Nik^  driving  a  chariot,  which 
is  in  the  Boston  Art  Museum,  happens  to 
be  an  ear-ring.  Multiply  it  a  thousand  times, 
and  modify  it  in  no  other  fashion,  and  it 
would  decorate  appropriately  a  monumental 
arch.  In  fact  it  would  decorate  an  arch  much 
more  satisfactorily  than  it  would  an  ear ;  and 
because  its  idea  is  not  suited  to  its  size,  it 
is  not  the  best.  The  tiny  reliefs,  the  gems, 
the  coins  that  are  most  successful,  are  not 
26 


SCULPTURE 

those  where  the  same  idea  is  expressed  in 
the  same  fashion  as  in  the  larger  type.  That 
any  form  can  be  forced  into  any  size  is 
true ;  but  it  were  better  not.  Our  point  is,  \ 
then,  simply  that  the  sculptural  size,  the 
size  that  can  express  anything  that  any 
sculpture  can,  must  be  at  least  approxi- 
mately twelve  or  fourteen  inches  high.  Be- 
low this,  if  the  subject  is  modified,  the  beauty 
and  excellence  may  be  as  overwhelming, 
but  it  is  not  in  its  strictest  sense  a  piece  of 
sculpture.  Or  if  the  same  idea  is  forced  intoy^ 
the  size,  it  is  not  so  good,  and  hence,  from 
our  definition,  not  sculpture  as  the  finest  art. 
All  sizes  may  have  developed  together. 
Our  interest  is  not,  however,  in  what  they 
were,  or  might  have  been,  but  in  what  they 
are.  The  tiny  in  sculpture  strikes  no  sculp- 
tural note  impossible  to  larger  work.  Its 
message  is  as  clear,  but  it  is  diflPerent.  We 
ordinarily  take  this  so  much  for  granted 
27 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

that  perhaps  it  has  never  occurred  to  us  that 
it  is  simply  the  change  in  size  which  makes 
us  call  a  relief  a  cameo ;  or  a  statue,  a  carv- 
ing ;  and  which  makes  our  ideal  demand  so 
different.  All  are  strictly  carvings,  and  while 
a  change  of  size  is  likely  to  mean  a  change 
to  a  more  delicate  material  as  well,  it  is  the 
difference  in  size  which  really  makes  the 
difference  in  classification,  and  the  differ- 
ence in  weight  which  changes  our  attitude 
from  the  more  sculptural  to  that  befitting 
the  so-called  minor  arts.  If  a  decrease  in 
size  so  changes  the  sculptor's  appeal,  what 
about  increase?  Could  a  statue  become  so 
large  that  it  would  be  a  statue  no  longer? 
If  not  a  statue,  what  would  it  be  ?  Here  we 
can  only  theorize,  since  even  the  colossal 
statues  known  to  art  are  not  so  large  that 
they  have  lost  their  sculpturesque  quality. 
One  can  always  reduce  size  by  distance,  so 
that  a  smaller  image  may  be  cast  upon  the 
28 


SCULPTURE 

retina;  and  whereas  an  architectural  char- 
acter would  presumably  be  present  in  a 
monumental  statue,  the  presence  of  weight 
is  so  essential  to  the  material  expression  of 
sculpture  that  additions  do  not  trifle  with 
its  effect  as  does  decrease.  A  certain  size  and 
solidity,  then,  must  be  immediately  and  ob- 
viously presented  to  us  in  the  material  of 
the  essentially  sculpturesque;  and  the  two 
abstract  terms  recall  to  us  certain  definitions 
of  substance  itself.  Philosophers  and  scien- 
tists have  always  been  trying  to  define  what 
we  mean  by  "  substance."  What,  if  any- 
thing, is  the  outer  world  finally  composed 
of  in  itself,  aside  from  the  modifications 
which  it  appears  to  undergo  in  relation  to 
our  sense  organs  ?  The  ancient  and  mediaeval 
thinkers  made  a  distinction  between  the 
qualities  which  inhere  in  substance,  as  op- 
posed to  the  qualities  which  it  seems  to  have 
by  virtue  of  its  action  on  our  sense  organs. 
29 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

Thus  color,  taste,  smell,  sound,  and  tempera- 
ture all  depend  on  the  state  of  our  own  nerv- 
ous system.  To  the  color-blind,  the  grass  is 
gray ;  to  the  fever  patient,  the  air  is  hot ;  to 
the  dry  tongue,  there  is  no  taste — and  so 
these  sensations  are  illusory,  and  represent 
only  the  secondary  qualities  of  substance. 
^  ^  But  the  primary  qualities  —  shape,  size,  and 
solidity  —  were  distinguished  from  these  as 
being  more  intimately  bound  up  in  the 
nature  of  substance  itself.  It  was  argued 
that,  however  relative  a  matter  taste  and 
color,  for  instance,  might  be,  size  and  weight 
were  so  a  part  of  matter  itself  that  they  be- 
longed in  a  peculiar  fashion  to  the  structure 
of  substance  as  such.  Thus  from  the  Greek 
Democritus,  who  deprived  atoms  of  any 
qualities  but  size  and  weight,  to  the  later 
scientific  theorizers,  who  associated  atoms 
with  no  characteristic  but  that  of  weight, 
there  has  been  a  greater  intimacy  of  connec- 
30 


SCULPTURE 

tion  in  thought  between  the  idea  of  matter 
and  the  primary  qualities  than  between  it 
and  those  termed  secondary,  and  size  and 
weight  have  been  regarded  as  the  essentials 
to  any  concepts  of  matter.  Modern  scien- 
tific theory  goes  beyond  this,  and  reduces 
atoms  to  something  more  elemental,  and 
modern  psychology  will  not  admit  that  per- 
ceptions of  weight  and  size  are  different 
in  any  peculiar  sense  from  the  other  sense 
perceptions.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  the  only 
point  in  which  we  are  interested  now  is  that 
in  the  imagination,  the  customary  concepts 
of  things  as  they  occur  in  any  mind,  these  so- 
called  primary  qualities  have  a  different  men- 
tal coloring  to  us  than  do  other  perceptions. 
So  an  art,  which  shows  its  material  aspect 
so  obviously,  the  material  substance  of  which 
we  can  recognize  so  easily,  we  should  expect 
to  awaken  in  us  a  greater  sensitiveness  to 
just  those  characteristics  of  substance,  which 
31 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

for  whatever  reason  have  been  most  inti- 
mately bound  up  with  our  very  conception 
of  it.  It  will  be  no  surprise  to  find  that  wide 
variations  in  volume,  and  hence  in  weight, 
make  more  difference  to  us  in  our  strictly 
(kl   sculpturesque  feeling  than  the  presence  or 
b )  absence  of  color,  smooth  or  unfinished  sur- 
C    face,  greater  or  less  detachment  from  the 
background,  or  even  more  or  less  fidelity  to 
/^realism  in  the  form  represented.  Of  course, 
marble    sculpture,  even    when    supposedly 
\  white,  appeals  to  us  more  or  less  by  color. 
It  is  a  cream  white,  or  a  veined  white,  or  a 
translucent  white;  or,  in  the  case  of  other 
stones  and  metals,  it  may  be  gray,  green, 
brown,  red,  or  almost  any  shade  in  plain 
colors  or  varied  tints  intermixed.    There  is 
evidence  that   the  Greek  sculptors  of  the 
early  and  even  the  classic  period  went  be- 
yond this  in  often  painting  their  marble  in 
broad  saturated  colors.  Whatever  the  color 
32 


SCULPTURE 

variation,  nevertheless,  however  we  like  or 
dislike  these  changes,  sculpture  stays  sculp- 
ture for  us,  in  a  way  it  does  not  when  wide 
variations  are  made  in  size.  Green  bronze 
and  gold  trimmings  make  a  statue  no  more 
and  no  less  than  the  whitest  or  blackest  of 
marble.  But  how  great  a  difference  in  our\ 
point  of  view  toward  a  colossal  Apollo  and 
a  figure  two  inches  high,  however  similar 
the  color  may  be,  and  however  the  outline 
and  beauty  of  both  may  approach  each  other ! 
As  we  have  already  said  in  this  connection, 
it  is  not  a  question  of  difference  in  beauty,  , 
but  in  classification. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  material  in  which 
our  sculptural  idea  must  find  expression.  Is 
there  also  a  limitation  in  the  sculptural  ideas 
that  can  be  expressed,  or  can  any  idea  find 
appropriate  exploitation  in  the  materials  we 
have  discovered  to  be  the  essential  medium  ? 

The  statues  we  have  studied  in  our  tour  of 
33 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the   gallery   have  been   almost  exclusively 
representations  of  human  and  animal  forms. 


Conspicuously  infrequent  have  been  figures 
of  the  dead,  and  nowhere  have  we  found,  as 
we  find,  for  instance,  in  painting,  isolated 
subjects  from  still  life.  In  reliefs,  especially 
low  reliefs  which  approach  drawing,  we  have 
seen  representation  of  inanimate  things  in 
the  background.  But  as  the  relief  becomes 
higher,  they  disappear,  and  in  free-standing 
statues  they  have  practically  ceased  to  exist 
in  any  other  capacity  than  as  ornament  or 
support  for  the  living  figures.  Inanimate 
things  as  statues  by  themselves  we  have  not 
found  at  all.  Thus  we  have  no  free-standing 
statue  of  a  tree  or  of  a  flower  by  itself,  of  a 
hillside  or  of  a  seashore.  There  are  no  interi- 
ors in  the  round,  with  rich  furniture  or  house- 
hold objects,  which  make  such  charming  sub- 
jects for  painting  or  poetry.  And  yet,  why 
could  not  sculpture,  which  has  of  all  the  arts 
34 


SCULPTURE 

a  tangible  medium  in  which  to  work,  express 
material  things  more  suitably  than  other  arts, 
where  the  translation  must  be  more  complete  ? 
Here,  of  course,  we  observe  that  a  stone  chair 
is  a  chair  and  not  the  statue  of  a  chair,  no 
matter  how  much  the  grain  of  another  sub- 
stance, like  wood,  be  imitated.  A  statue  of  a  \ 
table  is  a  table ;  a  statue  of  a  vase  is  a  vase  — 
and,  therefore,  so  far  as  this  kind  of  work 
is  concerned,  we  have  no  representation  of 
another  idea,  but  another  construction  of  the 
subject  itself.  Its  art  value  must  then  depend 
on  the  beauty  of  its  decoration  and  its  pro- 
portion —  not  at  all  on  the  faithfulness  with 
which  it  has  caught  the  spirit  of  its  model. 
This,  however,  does  not  dispose  of  flowers, 
fruit,  and  vegetables  as  sculptural  subjects.  A  » 
statue  of  a  palm  tree  is  no  more  a  tree  than  is 
a  painting  of  one,  and  yet  we  have  never  seen 
such  a  thing.  In  sculptural  relief  we  see  the 
loveliest  fruit  and  flower  decoration  possible. 
35 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

The  relief  may  even  be  very  high,  in  the 
decoration  of  capitals  of  columns  and  other 
architectural  work.  But  where  a  painter  goes 
beyond  this,  and  devotes  a  complete  art  work 
to  a  vase  of  flowers,  or  to  a  table  covered 
with  still-life  objects,  we  feel  that  such  a  sculp- 
tural free-standing  group  would  be  a  mon- 
strosity —  so  much  so  in  fact  that  it  has 
never  crossed  a  sculptor's  mind  to  try  it !  It 
cannot  be  all  a  matter  of  absence  of  color  in 
sculpture  which  makes  this  difference,  for 
nothing  need  have  prevented  artists  from 
coloring  such  still-life  studies.  But  appar- 
ently the  subject-matter  of  any  piece  of  in- 
dependent sculpture  must  be  a  living  form, 
or  one  strongly  suggesting  the  life  that  has 
just  left  it ;  and/ar  from  being  more  adapted 
to  express  the  material  side  of  nature  because 
of  its  heavy  material,  it  more  than  any  art 
must  express  life^  or  the  idea  as  far  as  possi- 
ble removed  from  stone. 

36 


SCULPTURE 

Let  a  poet  or  a  musician,  who  deals  in  a 
more  spiritual  medium,  takefor  his  subject, 
if  he  will,  a  tree,  a  mountain,  or  a  crumbling 
wall.  But  the  sculptor  who  is  handling  a 
block  of  stone  must  fashion  from  it  a  living 
and  breathing  form.  Art  is  a  translation  of 
an  idea  into  a  substance,  and  just  in  so  far  as 
the  substance  is  a  heavy  one,  the  idea  must 
be  vital  enough  to  vivify  it  throughout  its 
mass. 

But  here  one  more  restriction  is  necessary>s^ 
Shall  we  argue  from  this  that  if  living  forms 
must  animate  our  stone,  they  must  be  as  liv- 
ing as  possible  ?  Shall  they  always  dance  and 
sing,  shall  their  expression  be  of  the  liveliest, 
and  their  draperies  of  the  lightest,  to  counter- 
act the  material  out  of  which  they  are  strug- 
gling ?  Here  our  taste  and  our  observation 
rebel.  The  greatest  statues  are  quiet.  The 
drapery,  if  there  is  such,  falls  as  a  rule  in 
dignified  folds.  No  attempt  is  made  to  force 
37 


\ 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  stone  to  be  anything  but  stone  —  or, 
in  other  words,  the  heavy  substance,  although 
it  is  vivified,  is  not  contradicted.  The  idea, 
when  well  chosen,  exhibits  just  enough  of 
liveliness  to  spiritualize  its  mass,  without 
quarreling  with  it. 

We  are  impressed  with  the  fact  that  Sculp- 
ture is  more  than  any  other  art  the  expres- 
sion of  restraint.  It  must  avoid  this  and  that 
material,  and  be  strict  as  to  the  size  which  it 
chooses  for  its  idea.  It  cannot  represent  this 
inanimate  subject  nor  that  too  brisk  idea — 
but  above  all,  as  it  is  the  most  classic  art, 
it  must  look  carefully  to  the  most  perfect 
harmony  of  idea  with  subject,  and  show  ex- 
traordinary strictness  in  the  things  it  does 
not  do. 

What,  then,  are  the  ideas  which  are  suit- 
able for  Sculpture,  after  finding  so  many 
that  are  not?  Are  we  not  forced  to  an  un- 
bearable monotony,  if  our  subjects  must  be 

38 


SCULPTURE 

chosen  from  the  ranks  of  living  forms,  at 
ease  with  themselves  ?  In  a  picture  gallery, 
were  subject  after  subject  to  show  as  little 
variation  as  is  indicated  in  a  sculpture  cata- 
logue, we  should  rebel.  But  here,  strangely 
enough,  we  do  not  rebel  in  the  least,  and 
since  the  ordinary  monotonies  do  not  ob- 
tain, we  shall  be  forced  to  investigate  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  We  call  any  group 
of  people  monotonous  when  each  member 
of  the  company  talks,  dresses,  and  acts  like 
every  other.  We  are  fatigued  in  any  circle 
where  the  opinions,  the  habits,  and  the 
standards  of  all  its  members  are  a  foregone 
conclusion,  and  we  sigh  for  a  difference, — 
for  a  shock  if  necessary, — to  reinforce  our- 
selves with  the  variety  of  living.  With  all 
this,  there  exist  certain  constant  similari- 
ties, any  trifling  with  which  gives  an  abnor- 
mality and  not  a  gratifying  change.  We  do 
not  complain,  as  did  Humpty  Dumpty  in 
39 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

"Through  the  Looking  Glass,"  that  more 
people  have  not  been  made  distinctive  by 
having  two  eyes  on  the  same  side  of  their 
nose!  We  do  not  ask  that  social  monotony 
be  varied  by  walking  on  hands  instead  of 
feet,  or  painting  our  faces  the  color  of  jade. 
We  demand  individual  variation  within  a 
constancy  of  type.  Therefore  it  is  tiresome 
to  reiterate  the  same  remarks,  but  not  to 
consort  always  with  vertebrates;  because 
conversation  is  an  individual  matter  and 
should  be  varied,  and  backbones  are  typical 
matters  and  should  be  as  uniformly  regular 
as  possible.  Now,  it  is  wholly  a  matter  of 
the  point  of  view  whether  you  fasten  your 
attention  on  the  individual  or  on  the  typical 
aspect  of  any  matter.  Both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion must  be  always  present  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, but  the  emphasis  is  different.  That  is, 
every  art  object  is  an  individual  existence, 
no  matter  how  typical  in  conception ;  and 
40 


SCULPTURE 

just  as  truly  all  art  which  is  truly  great  points 
beyond  the  fleeting  individual  emotion  to 
the  type  of  which  it  is  a  part.  Nevertheless 
the  emphasis  varies  greatly,  and  sculpture, 
in  its  essence,  is  the  art  expressive  of  typi- 
cal values.  After  all  that  we  have  said  that 
it  does  not  do,  at  last  we  affirm  positively 
that  which  it  does.  The  figures  of  sculpture 
are  not  engaged  in  so-called  significant  ac- 
tions, because  those  are  individual  matters. 
Your  traveling,  or  singing,  or  banking,  or 
teaching  are  the  pursuits  which  represent 
the  more  important  aspects  of  life  to  you  as 
individuals.  But  the  statues,  as  we  noticed  at 
the  beginning,  are  standing,  sitting,  leaning, 
watching,  holding,  playing,  living,  or  per- 
haps dying,  in  a  fashion  as  far  as  possible 
removed  from  individual  application,  but 
which  expresses,  if  we  catch  its  message,  the 
absolute  dignity  of  life  as  such.  Man  him- 
self is  more  than  anything  he  does.  Our 
41 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

separate  actions  are,  after  all,  two  thirds 
fussiness,  and  the  superb  dignity  of  these 
sculptured  maidens  who  clasp  a  belt  or  bind  a 
sandal,  the  repose  of  those  serene  athletes 
who  stand  or  bend  so  easily,  and  who  refuse 
to  commit  themselves  to  more,  is  an  eternal 
proud  assertion  that  life  itself,  not  its  pur- 
suits, is  the  greatest  reality.  There  is  a  mag- 
nificence in  this  high  simplicity  which  is  in 
some  respects  more  touching  than  the  most 
individually  impassioned  lyric.  If  we  apolo- 
gize for  anything,  let  it  be  for  our  lacks  or 
abnormalities,  not  for  the  splendid  vital 
postures  and  movements  which  unite  us  with 
the  race.  We  are  both  individuals  and  mem- 
bers of  a  type  —  the  emphasis  is  ours  to 
make,  and  thus  has  sculpture  chosen.  Could 
any  material  so  express  our  bond  with  nature 
and  with  each  other  as  blocks  of  the  earth 
from  which  we  sprung? 

All  that  we  have  said  does  not  in  the  least 
42 


SCULPTURE 

prevent  sculpture  from  being  an  art  in  which 
portraiture  is  possible,  and  portraiture  of 
the  highest  order.  But  just  as  any  great 
portrait,  in  whatever  material,  gives  through 
the  individual  features  the  universal  type  of 
which  it  is  the  expression,  so  sculpture  does 
it  even  more.  There  is,  in  the  very  weight 
of  its  stone,  a  suggestion  of  the  pressure  of 
that  human  family  for  which  one  man  has 
been  chosen  to  be  the  symbol.  One  must\ 
come  away  from  any  sculptural  display  with 
a  sense  of  the  magnificence  of  the  human 
heritage  strong  upon  him,  and  it  is  the 
nicely  adjusted  harmony  of  the  idea  with  the 
substance  which  brings  this  result  to  pass.    / 

We  cannot  have  failed  to  notice  in  our 
tour  through  the  gallery  of  sculpture  that  a 
head,  a  torso,  a  bit  of  decoration  even,  is 
treated  with  a  curious  respect.  In  fact,  sculp- 
ture, in  spite  of  the  apparent  durability  of 
material,  is  likely  to  be,  more  than  any  other 
43 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

art,  in  a  fragmentary  condition.  We  are  little 
disturbed,  or  at  least  not  too  much  shocked, 
by  the  battered  condition  of  a  large  part  of 
classic  sculpture,  to  find  in  it  a  splendid  beauty 
notwithstanding.  Is  there  no  limit  to  the  ex- 
pressiveness of  a  stone  ?  A  man's  head,  his 
foot,  his  trunk  are  but  mutilated  parts  of  his 
whole  body  ;  but  a  head  in  sculpture  is  not 
a  mutilation,  but  a  complete  thing.  In  coins, 
a  head  more  often  than  not  is  chosen  as  com- 
plete design,  and  evokes  no  impression  of 
fragmentariness.  Moreover,  although  other 
isolated  parts  of  the  body  are  seldom  chosen 
for  separate  treatment,  if  time  and  hard  us- 
age have  unhappily  destroyed  the  rest  of  the 
figure,  we  can  treat  such  a  fragment  as  if  it 
were  a  whole.  We  forget  the  absence  of  the 
legs  of  the  Hermes,  and  of  the  heads  of  the 
figures  on  the  Parthenon  pediment.  We  re- 
gret their  loss,  as  we  should  regret  the  loss 
of  any  great  art  work,  but  their  absence  does 
44 


SCULPTURE 

not  vitiate  the  appeal  of  what  remains.  Any 
part  of  the  body  which  can  enough  express 
the  meaning  of  the  whole  to  give  a  fair  idea 
of  what  the  rest  would  be,  can  be  called  a 
sufficiently  complete  expression  of  a  living 
value  to  stand  as  an  art  work  on  its  own 
merits.  Thus  the  face  without  the  nose,  or 
without  the  cranium ;  the  torso  without  the 
limbs,  or  the  head  without  the  torso,  can  all 
express  a  complete  living  value,  which  a  nose 
without  a  face  or  an  arm  without  a  hand  can- 
not do.  Without  a  sufficient  admixture  of 
life,  and  living  lines  in  the  material,  the  stone 
has  turned  to  stone  again. 

Is  there  any  possibility  of  summarizing 
this  discussion?  We  have  tried  to  under- 
stand a  little  of  the  sculptural  demand  which 
underlies  the  matter  and  the  idea  of  this  art, 
which  represents  as  perhaps  no  other  does 
an  age-long  human  experience.  No  defini- 
tion can  expound  its  essence,  and  no  for- 
45 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

mula  can  bind  it.  Yet  for  the  sake  of  a  clear, 
even  if  imperfect  parting  concept,  let  us  try- 
to  gather  up  the  loose  ends  and  epitomize 
our  results.  We  have  limited  the  substance 
in  which  sculpture  may  fittingly  be  ex- 
pressed; we  have  limited  the  ideas,  the  action, 
the  emotion  which  is  fitting  to  the  substance, 
and  we  have  pointed  out  the  bond,  and  the 
gulf,  by  which  sculpture  is  respectively 
united  with  and  separated  from  the  nature 
which  is  her  model.  Let  us  conclude  then 
by  a  formulation  of  our  results  :  — 

Sculpture  is  the  representation  of  a  certain 
magnitude,  in  stone  or  other  heavy  material, 
of  a  complete  expression  of  a  living  form ; 
where  the  idea  harmonizes  with  the  material, 
by  expressing  no  action  or  passion  that  is 
uncontrolled,  but  where,  through  a  simple 
and  universal  bodily  attitude,  the  grandeur 
of  the  life  of  the  type  is  represented. 


II  ' 

THE   MINOR  ARTS 


II 

THE   MINOR   ARTS 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  paradoxical  situ- 
ation in  the  vocabulary  of  art  than  this :  that 
a  public  which  can  passionately  admire  the 
minor  arts  cannot  give  them  a  better  name ! 
To  label  them  as  "  minor  "  calls  forth  a  pro- 
test from  those  who  find  in  this  field  of  art 
a  nearer  approach  to  perfection  than  in  any 
other.  "  Industrial "  art  is  surely  a  misno- 
mer, for  many  objects  which  fall  within  this 
classification  are  no  more  industrially  useful 
than  others  which  enjoy  unquestioned  rank 
among  the  fine  arts.  "  Decorative  "  art  is 
hardly  more  satisfactory,  since  so  much 
painting  and  sculpture  of  the  best  periods  is 
decorative. 

The  nomenclature  is  certainly  faulty,  and 
49 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

yet  there  is,  I  believe,  a  certain  justification 
for  the  name  we  have  chosen  as  our  title, 
against  which  we  cannot  rebel  if  we  under- 
stand It  fully. 

What  are  the  minor  arts  ?  We  find  under 
this  heading  such  diverse  products  as  wood- 
carving  and  terra-cottas,  coins  and  mosaics, 
glass-  and  metal-work,  carved  ivory  and 
jewelry,  bookbinding,  pottery  and  textiles, 
and  the  question  naturally  arises,  "  What  is 
there  in  common  among  such  a  variety  of 
materials  and  forms  ?  "  Surely  a  coin  bears 
no  more  resemblance  to  an  embroidered  scarf 
or  a  carved  desk  than  does  a  picture  to  a 
statue — not  so  much,  in  fact;  and  yet,  ac- 
cording to  some  broad  distinction,  they  are 
all  grouped  together.  To  limit  the  field  of 
sculpture  is  comparatively  easy,  since  there 
is  an  almost  complete  uniformity  in  the  ma- 
terials of  stone  and  metal.  But  in  the  minor 
arts  obviously  no  one  substance  can  be  the 
50 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

binding  tie  between  products  of  brass  and 
of  leather,  clay  and  silk ;  so"  we  must  look 
for  some  kinship  in  the  ideas  represented. 
Here  again  our  search  is  unrewarded,  for 
now  it  is  a  Christ  in  ivory,  and  now  a  lily- 
like bowl  in  glass ;  here  a  bull  delicately 
chased  on  a  gold  cup,  and  there  a  palmette 
on  a  shawl.  We  find  an  impartial  interest 
in  natural  and  geometric  forms,  which  is  no 
more  exclusively  common  to  this  group  of 
arts  than  it  is  to  painting  or  sculpture.  In 
fact  the  satisfaction  of  the  minor  artist  (since 
we  must  use  the  term)  in  his  work  is  appar- 
ently shared  by  the  painter,  for  the  latter 
delights  in  painting  the  rich  objects  which 
the  former  has  already  fashioned.  Is  it  not 
a  paradox  to  label  as  "  lesser  "  the  artist  who 
produces  the  brocades  and  gold  ornament, 
the  furniture  and  gems,  with  which  the 
painter  decks  his  model,  and  which  he  is  at 
so  much  pains  to  reproduce  ? 
51 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

However  this  may  be,  we  must  apparently 
look  beyond  conformity  in  material,  or  in 
the  objects  chosen  for  representation,  for  a 
satisfactory  reason  why  all  these  diverse 
beautiful  objects  should  be  thought  of  as  re- 
lated. We  can  detect  no  common  demand 
of  color,  size,  or  weight,  for  these  arts  range 
from  the  tiny  to  the  massive,  with  every 
conceivable  variety  of  surface,  solidity,  form, 
and  finish,  according  to  the  material  of 
which  they  are  made  and  the  place  they  are 
/  to  fill.  The  reason  sometimes  given  for 
their  common  grouping  is  that  they  are, 
despite  their  wide  difference,  alike  in  the 
respect  that  they  serve  a  practical  purpose. 
They  are  subservient  to  use,  and  because 
of  this  harnessing  to  the  ordinary  pursuits 
of  life,  they  cannot  be  placed  in  the  proud 
circle  of  the  arts  which  exist  for  their  own 
sake,  aside  from  practical  issues.  While 
there  is  undoubtedly  a  large  measure  of 
52 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

truth  in  this  distinction,  it  would  seem  as  if 
we  were  not  wholly  conscious  of  a  tendency 
to  unfairness  in  our  comparisons.  We  are 
likely  to  put  side  by  side  in  our  imaginations 
the  finest  of  painting  or  sculpture  with  the 
mediocre  in  the  industrial  arts,  where  the 
subserviency  of  beauty  to  use,  in  the  latter, 
is  unduly  obvious.  Let  us  rather  compare 
the  best  of  Greek  sculpture  with  the  best 
Greek  coins  and  vases;  the  best  Italian 
painting  with  finest  jewelry  and  tapestries  of 
the  period,  and  at  once  the  distinction  loses 
its  obvious  character.  It  is  true  that  the 
vases  were  made  for  wine,  and  the  coins  for 
currency,  but  so,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
the  paintings  made  to  decorate  walls,  and 
many  of  the  statues  were  for  votive  offer- 
ings. Now,  neither  statues,  vases,  nor  coins 
perform  their  function,  but  they  all  retain 
their  importance.  When  they  stand  in  the/ 
trying  isolation  of  an  art  gallery,  the  minor 
53 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

arts  tell  their  story  articulately  with  no  help 
from  a  former  industrial  value.  It  is  un- 
'  doubtedly  true  that  the  frescoes  upon  the 
wall  are  every  bit  as  useful  to  their  owner  as 
are  the  crown  jewels  to  the  king,  when  at 
long  intervals  he  places  them  upon  his  head. 
One  art  product  decorates  one  thing,  and 
one  another;  why  then  charge  the  second 
with  an  industrial  purpose,  when  we  do  not 
so  charge  the  first  ?  Here  it  is  possible  to 
make  a  distinction.  Granted  that  any  art  ob- 
ject may  be  used  for  some  practical  purpose 
if  it  is  forced  to  be  so  used  ;  the  minor  arts  are 
deliberately  fashioned  with  such  a  purpose 
in  view,  and  any  divorcement  from  their  in- 
tended function  is  wholly  artificial.  The  re- 
moval of  the  industrial  art  object  to  an  art 
gallery  amounts  only,  we  might  say,  to  an 
admission  that  we  are  too  busy  or  too  poor 
to  afford  such  things  for  daily  handling.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  is  no  such  artificiality 
54 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

in  the  painting  wrenched  from  the  wall  it 
was  made  to  decorate.  A  wall  is  a  wall,  no 
matter  where.  To  decorate  it  is  but  a  shadow 
of  usefulness  in  any  case.  Therefore,  the 
sacrifice  in  a  changed  setting  in  the  latter 
case  is  a  negligible  quantity.  But  the  place 
for  coins  is  in  a  wallet,  or  slipping  through 
one's  fingers ;  the  place  for  glass  and  pottery 
is  on  a  well-decked  table,  with  milk  and 
honey  glimmering  within.  If  not  where  they 
were  meant  to  be,  we  lose  the  piquancy  of 
their  workmanship,  whereas  a  painting  or  a 
statue  need  be  only  where  it  has  a  good 
light  and  a  fair  approach. 

It  will  be  admitted,  however,  that  there 
is  a  very  wide  variation  in  such  practical  util- 
ity. Some  industrial  arts  are  undoubtedly 
very  useful  in  gaining  a  livelihood  for  others 
besides  the  artist  who  makes  them,  while 
others  are  as  vaguely  usable  as  the  most 
disinterested  major  arts  could  be. 
55 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

Why  is  the  richly  ornamented  frame  of 
an  altar-piece  any  more  ■practical  than  the 
painting  within  ?  The  frame  is  needed  for 
the  picture,  but  so  is  the  picture  for  the 
frame.  Both  are  lovely  objects.  Both  serve 
the  purpose  of  decorating  a  shrine.  Both  are 
sufficiently  good  to  retain  their  merit  if 
transferred  to  another  setting ;  and  whereas, 
for  other  reasons,  we  are  justified  in  calling 
the  painting  as  much  more  important  as  we 
like,  it  would  hardly  seem  that  the  basis  of 
distinction  were  practical,  industrial  useful- 
ness. 

Another  thing  has  been  very  evident  in  a 
mere  naming  of  the  industrial  arts.  There  is 
no  abstraction  in  their  titles  as  there  has  come 
to  be  in  the  so-called  fine  arts.  Instead  of 
"  sculpture  "  and  "  painting  "  of  somethings 
with  a  vagueness  as  to  what,  and  the  still 
further  indefinite  character  of  the  terms 
"literature"  and  "  music,**  we  have  a  brisk 

56 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

concreteness  in  the  material  of  the  art  — 
wood,  metal,  glass,  clay  —  which  indicates 
at  once  that  here  is  the  centre  of  our  inter- 
est. The  other  arts  must  have  material  ex- 
pression no  less  than  these,  but  they  have 
not  considered  the  material  of  such  para- 
mount importance  that  it  must  be  named 
as  the  essence  of  their  whole  work.  Thus  a 
minor  artist  may  be  frankly  a  gem-cutter ; 
while  a  sculptor  does  not  perhaps  recognize 
himself  at  once  as  a  stone-cutter.  At  any 
rate,  whatever  his  own  fondness  for  his 
material,  the  rest  of  the  world  does  not 
call  him  such,  and  here  we  have  struck  one 
important  note  of  difference. 

Vocabulary  is  after  all  a  sensitive  indica- 
tor of  thought  —  or  at  least  of  the  absence 
of  it.  If  minor  artists  have  never  separated 
their  work  from  their  material  enough  even 
to  name  the  art  which  they  pursue,  the 
chances  are  that  the  substance  which  they 
57 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

handle  remains  a  factor  in  their  imagination 
of  supreme  importance.  A  name  may  be 
given  to  their  products  in  terms  of  the  use 
to  which  they  will  be  subjected :  as,  furni- 
ture or  bookbinding;  or  in  terms  of  the 
material  of  which  they  are  made  :  as,  gems, 
brasses,  blown  glass,  or  terra-cotta.  But  there 
is  apparently  no  way  to  indicate  such  an  ab- 
straction as  that  of  painting  and  sculpture, 
where  the  process  and  the  material  have  grown 
together  in  the  connotation  of  the  term;  as 
that  of  literature,  with  its  reference  to  deal- 
ing in  "  letters  ";  architecture  to  building; 
and  music,  denoting  by  its  name  only  an 
art  watched  over  and  inspired  by  the  muses. 
If  the  industrial  artists  had  so  looked 
upon  their  art  that  the  idea  or  activity  which 
it  embodied  took  rank  above  the  particular 
material  of  which  it  was  fashioned,  such  a 
point  of  view  would  have  become  crystal- 
lized in  language. 

58 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

To  admit,  then,  an  especial  emphasis  in"^ 
thought  upon  the  material  which  passes 
through  the  workman's  hands  is  the  first 
step  toward  penetrating  to  the  principle  in- 
volved. This  in  no  way  indicates  inferiority, 
but  simply  a  diflFerence  in  the  manner  of 
approach.  All  artists  must  feel  the  utmost 
sensitiveness  to  the  subtle  appeal  of  the 
substance  which  they  handle,  and  to  feel  it 
more  acutely  is  of  itself  no  indication  of 
a  materialistic  mind,  but  rather  of  more 
delicate  susceptibility. 

It  seems  as  if  the  nations  that  took  sub- 
stance more  seriously  were  rewarded  by  a 
skill  in  its  invention  and  manipulation,  that 
we  of  the  Occident,  who  feel  more  sharply 
the  cleavage  between  mind  and  matter,  spirit 
and  body,  could  never  have.  A  philosophy, 
for  instance,  with  a  settled  conviction  that 
God  is  in  everything,  for  "  when  me  they 
fly,  I  am  the  wings,"  does  not  share  in  our  dis- 
59 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

tinction  between  creator  and  created  things. 
Whether  causally  connected  with  this  or  not, 
the  inventions  of  the  East  display  a  genius 
for  detecting  the  possibiHties  of  mere  matter 
which  we  do  not  share.  Take,  for  instance, 
textiles,  where  the  idea  represented  is  per- 
haps as  difficult  to  separate  from  the  material 
as  in  any  of  the  industrial  arts.  There  may 
be  pictorial  representation  in  the  weaving, 
or  there  may  be  simply  the  dumb  beauty  of 
texture  and  surface  and  color,  but  by  their 
very  names  our  more  beautiful  textiles  are 
branded  with  their  Eastern  origin  :  Pongee 
and  rajah,  crepes  and  cashmeres,  Persian 
carpets,  India  mulls,  scarfs  from  Egypt, 
and  chuddahs  from  India.  What  invention 
in  textiles  has  the  Western  world,  with  its 
greater  development  in  literature  and  music, 
to  offer  in  comparison  ?  It  cannot  invent  a 
beautiful  substance  because  it  does  not 
understand  it,  and  in  its  heart  despises  even 
60 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

while  it  admires.  A  man's  or  a  nation's  phi- 
losophy is  the  most  important  thing  about 
them,  and  until  both  honor  substance,  and 
see  the  idea  of  material  power  behind  its 
actuality,  neither  man  nor  nation  will  ever 
become  preeminent  in  the  minor  arts.  ^^ 

So  much,  then,  for  the  materials  of  these 
arts  —  as  wide  a  range  as  there  are  beautiful 
substances  to  be  found  or  fashioned. 

What  is  the  artist  to  do  with  his  material 
when  he  finds  it?  He  must  not  only  exploit 
its  own  beauties,  but,  as  in  the  other  arts,  he 
must  there  embody  some  idea  which  by  its 
harmony  with  the  substance  lives  in  it  in  a 
way  that  makes  all  observers  feel  that  here  is 
its  inevitable  setting.  If  we  look  through  the 
industrial  arts,  we  find  the  range  of  ideas 
expressed  in  them  as  wide  almost  as  the 
materials. 

Moreover,  as  the  list  of  subjects  indicates, 
there  is  a  strong  suggestion  with  each  of 
6i 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

these  art  objects  that  something  is  to  be 
done  with  it.  It  may  be  as  distinctly  useful 
an  action  as  clothing  the  person,  or  as  re- 
motely practical  as  slipping  a  ring  on  the 
finger,  or  hanging  a  rug  on  the  wall.  But 
its  position  is  always  relative.  To  be  seen  to 
the  best  advantage,  there  is  an  appropriate- 
ness about  its  being  seen  in  one  place  rather 
than  another ;  on  a  table  or  in  a  window, 
around  the  neck  or  on  the  floor ;  and  despite 
the  fact  that  good  industrial  art  can  stand 
alone,  only  in  the  place  for  which  it  was 
designed  can  we  get  its  full  charm. 

Perhaps  nothing  will  illustrate  so  clearly 
this  range  of  subject-matter  as  to  contrast 
it  with  the  subjects  common  to  sculpture. 
There  we  find  man  in  his  essential  aspects, 
not  man  in  his  diverse  activities  ;  man  in  his 
universal  nature  which  we  all  share,  not  in 
his  occupations  in  which  no  two  of  us  are 
alike. 

62 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

Here  seemingly  we  have  just  the  reverse. 
We  are  not  now  interested  in  what  man  is,  so 
much  as  in  the  innumerable  things  which  he 
does ;  the  things  he  handles,  and  reads,  and 
eats  from,  and  sits  upon,  and  looks  out  of, 
and  kneels  upon,  and  laughs  at,  and  hunts 
with,  and  in  which  he  arrays  himself,  his 
family  and  his  house. 

Just  what  sculpture  never  does,  the  minor 
arts  do.  They  embody  the  ideas  of  man's 
infinite  activities.  They  illustrate  for  us  the 
habits  of  a  people  as  nothing  else  could  / 
possibly  do. 

But  are  we  not  here  involved  in  a  contra- 
diction ?  We  decided  earlier  in  our  discussion 
that  it  was  not  in  point  to  give  as  the  distin- 
guishing mark  of  the  minor  arts  that  they 
were  practically  useful,  for  many  of  them  are 
not  so.  Here,  on  the  other  hand,  we  seem 
to  be  saying  that  it  is  their  embodiment  of 
the  idea  of  man's  activities  that  gives  them 

63 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

/  their  distinctive  classification.  Is  it  not  the 
same  thing?  If  these  arts  mirror  an  artist's 
attention  as  centred  upon  human  activities, 
and  if  he  suggests  them  in  art  forms  which 
may  enable  a  man  to  live  them  out,  is  not 
that  the  same  thing  as  to  call  them  practically 

\^  useful? 

Here,  however,  an  important  distinction 
must  be  made. 

We  have  granted  already  that  the  minor 
arts  bear  a  special  relation  to  the  place  they 
were  intended  to  occupy.  They  demand,  by 
their  very  form,  that  the  activity  which  they 
suggest  be  carried  out.  But  that  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  practical  usefulness.  That  a 
stained-glass  window  cries  out  to  have  the 
light  shine  through  its  vivid  panes ;  that  a 
heavy  ring  implores  to  be  handled  ;  and  that 
a  rich  shawl  sighs  for  its  breadth  to  be  gath- 
ered into  folds  and  its  colors  reflected  on 
Itself,  seems  as  far  removed  from  bread-and- 
64 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

butter  pursuits  as  for  a  poem  to  prefer  articu- 
lation by  a  good  voice  to  distortion  by  a 
cracked  one. 

What  do  we  mean  by  usefulness  when  we^ 
watch  the  color  of  tea  in  a  porcelain  cup  or 
fondle  a  leathern  volume  with  illuminated 
pages?  If  all  we  cared  to  do  was  to  drink 
the  tea  or  look  out  of  the  window  or  read 
the  book,  then  why  go  to  the  trouble  of 
making  the  porcelain,  the  glass,  and  the 
leather  beautiful? 

To  accomplish  an  action  and  get  through 
with  it  is  all  that  most  of  us  care  for,  and 
the  arts  of  our  country  show  it.  In  reality 
the  lovely  binding  embodies  the  idea  of 
reading,  the  cup  is  the  quintessence  of  tea- 
drinking,  the  window  stands  for  the  spirit 
of  "  windowness  "  —  aside  from  the  fact  of 
whether  we  wish  to  use  it  to  Improve  the 
ventilation  or  not. 

Paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  these  arts, 
6s 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

instead  of  standing  for  practical  issues,  stand 
for  exactly  the  reverse  1  This  beautification 
of  the  daily  tools  of  living  is  not  a  practical 
matter,  practical  in  the  sense  of  ministering 
thereby  to  our  bodily  life,  but  it  is  a  purely 
ideal  one.  In  so  far  as  the  ordinary  tools  are 
lovely,  we  for  ever  so  slight  an  instant  forget 
to  use  them,  and  look  at  them  instead.  We 
are  not  content  that  a  really  beautiful  neck- 
lace be  always  unseen  by  ourselves  upon  our 
own  necks,  but  we  let  it  slip  through  our 
fingers  endlessly  to  watch  the  lights  therein 
V  — and  then  omit  to  wear  it.  Instead  of 
thumping  impatiently  on  the  wrought  bronze 
knocker  for  an  answer,  we  are  beguiled  by 
its  beauty  into  forgetting  our  errand.  A 
carven  chair  demands  at  least  another  chair 
for  one  to  sit  in  while  he  gazes  at  the  rich- 
ness of  the  first,  and  who  does  not  pause 
before  stepping  upon  a  beautiful  rug  and 
hesitate  to  subject  it  to  so  mean  a  purpose? 
66 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

For  practical  drinking,  give  us  a  stout  mug 
that  will  not  break,  and  that  will  keep  its 
heat  or  cold,  not  a  delicate  shell  that  brooks 
no  rough  treatment  and  whose  transparency- 
distracts  our  thirst.  For  practical  currency- 
give  us  mediocre  bits  of  metal,  where  our 
satisfaction  in  the  handling  is  wholly  relative 
to  the  mint  value,  and  whose  beauty  of  de- 
sign will  never  tempt  us  to  expose  it  when 
it  is  not  in  use.  Surely  to  keep  out  the  light, 
there  are  many  materials  more  substantial 
than  lace  or  embroidery,  and  who  can  look 
in  or  out  of  a  stained-glass  window  ? 

It  is  obvious  that  these  objects  are  far 
from  practical  in  the  sense  of  making  more 
successful  the  pursuits  to  which  they  are 
dedicated.  Human  attention  is  a  rigorously 
limited  affair,  and  when  it  is  directed  to  the 
graving  on  a  knife  or  fork,  it  cannot  so  de- 
vote itself  to  wielding  them.  When  it  is  lost 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  enamel  on  a 
67 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

buckle,  the  clasp  remains  unfastened,  and 
wheels  of  industry  go  round  again  only  when 
the  representative  idea  of  buckling  and  eat- 
ing and  sitting  at  a  table  has  been  forgotten, 
and  the  actual  operation  has  begun. 

^/  Thus  it  is  that  the  minor  arts  make  for 
a  slower,  less  practical  life.  They  put  the 
brakes  on  restless  transactions  which  are 
concerned  only  with  ends  to  be  gained  for 
the  advantage  of  the  doer,  and  by  giving 
him  pause  as  he  fingers  each  tool  in  the  proc- 
ess, the  idealism  of  the  manifold  interests 

^  of  life  comes  home  to  him.  He  forgets  the 
bargain  and  the  hunt,  which  are  after  all 
relative  matters  and  must  soon  be  done 
again,  and  instead  he  loses  himself,  for  ever 
so  short  a  time,  in  the  idea  of  the  pursuit, 
its  infinite  human  interest,  and  therewith 
the  activity  becomes  not  relative  but  eternal. 
The  materialism  of  any  age  begins,  not  when 
men  are  held  periodically  in  the  spell  of  the 
68 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

grandeur  which  is  typified  by  their  tools, 
but  when  they  are  deluded'  into  thinking 
that  the  tools  are  nothing,  and  that  some 
material  result  of  the  process  is  the  reason 
for  it  all.  ^' 

To  regard  a  dinner  as  solely  a  matter  of 
food  and  the  disposing  of  it  is  the  practical 
point  of  view.  To  look  upon  the  shapes  of 
the  dishes  and  their  texture  as  symbols  of 
the  kinds  of  substance  that  are  placed  within, 
and  as  indicating  the  physical  laws  which 
govern  the  way  they  must  be  served  and 
eaten,  puts  an  idealistic  touch  on  a  necessary 
occupation  and  makes  acceptable  a  less 
redundant  repast. 

With  such  a  range  of  exquisite  materials, 
and  such  an  abundance  of  ideas  to  express, 
how  could  it  ever  happen  that  these  arts 
were  labeled  minor  ?  There  is  no  less  skill 
in  making,  and  no  less  time  required  to  bring 
such  art  objects  to  perfection.    It  may  take 

69 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

longer  to  build  a  cathedral  or  paint  a  fresco 
than  to  fashion  a  goblet ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  goblet  may  be  longer  in  the  mak- 
ing than  a  poem  or  a  melody.  Art  is  long  in 
any  case,  and  any  attempt  to  measure  the 
preeminence  of  an  art  by  such  a  time-scale 
would  be  certain  to  end  in  ineffectual  dis- 
tinctions. We  cannot  say  there  is  less  beauty 
in  the  minor  arts ;  indeed,  there  is  often  a 
perfection  about  a  coin  or  a  bit  of  embroidery 
that  more  imposing  work,  by  the  very  am- 
bition of  its  attempt,  finds  impossible  to 
reveal. 
f  Yet,  despite  all  this,  I  believe  that  the 
distinction  between  the  major  and  the  minor 
arts  is  based  upon  a  vital  and  universal  dif- 
ference in  emotional  approach,  and  that  it 
is  of  this  difference  that  we  are  inarticulately 
aware  when  we  pass  from  one  type  of  art  to 
the  other,  and  vaguely  feel  that  the  atmos- 
phere has  changed.  I  believe  that  this  differ- 
70 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

ence  of  attitude  is  indicated  very  clearly  in 
the  facial  expression  of  a  company  which 
passes  from  the  contemplation  of  painting 
and  sculpture  to  a  collection  of  gems,  tex- 
tiles, or  porcelains.  They  come  from  the  one 
elated  but  serious,  chastened  somewhat  by 
its  grandeur  and  quiet.  To  use  Aristotle's 
term  there  has  been  a  katharsis  of  the  mind 
through  the  weight  of  sublime  things,  but  A 
as  soon  as  the  scene  has  changed  and  they 
are  faced  with  the  products  of  the  industrial 
artist,  they  shift  from  an  attitude  of  awe  to 
one  of  unmixed  delight. 

There  is  no  less  respect  for  the  skill  of  the 
artist  or  for  the  value  of  his  work ;  but  his 
message  is  always  joyous,  full  of  abundant 
life.  Such  pleasure  is  contagious.  The  spec-  y; 
tator  literally  smiles  as  he  fingers  the  smooth 
carving  or  the  sinuous  links  of  a  gold  chain. 
Moreover,  he  longs  to  handle  them,  almost^ 
to  play  with  them  —  faintly  echoing  by  this 
71 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

very  desire  that  pleasure  with  which  the 
craftsman  gave  the  burnished  surface  in  the 
beginning,  and  toyed  with  his  work  before 
\  it  left  his  hands.  This  pleasure  in  physical 
contact  with  the  minor  arts  is  the  natural 
impulse  to  handle  any  delightful  form,  an 
impulse  which  in  the  major  arts  is  only  coun- 
teracted by  our  reverence  for  the  dignity  of 
the  idea  conveyed. 

With  the  minor  arts,  on  the  contrary,  our 
delight  is  without  admixture  of  awe.  Our 
respect  is  no  less.  It  may  in  certain  cases  be 
more.  But  just  as  the  most  devoted  subject 
in  the  realm  might  feel  an  impulse  to  pat  the 
cheek  of  the  royal  baby  whom  he  adored, 
whereas  he  would  only  bow  before  the  king, 
so  we  may  love  the  minor  arts  as  much  as 
we  will  and  marvel  at  their  perfection,  but 
however  we  love  them,  we  are  not  afraid  of 
them !  They  speak  to  us  only  of  joy,  and 
joy  unmixed  with  other  emotions  cannot 
72 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

stay  our  hand.  Just  here,  I  believe,  is  the 
province  of  the  minor  artist  and  his  limita- 
tion. No  art  sings  so  exclusively  of  happi- / 
ness  and  delight  in  living  as  does  this  which 
deals  in  the  fashioning  from  exquisite  mate- 
rials the  typical  tools  of  the  life  of  humanity. 
Living,  as  we  do,  in  a  country  where  the 
craftsman  is  never  seen  at  work,  we  lose  sight 
of  this  prime  factor  of  his  creative  impulse. 
But  what  could  be  more  cheerful  than  the 
shop  of  an  Italian  gold  or  silversmith,  a  gem- 
cutter,  a  wood-carver,  or  (the  economic  con- 
ditions being  satisfactory)  of  a  lace-maker? 
If  they  in  ever  so  slight  a  degree  have  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  real  artist,  it  is  their  joy 
which  they  put  into  their  work.  No  heavy  / 
brows,  such  as  we  have  by  common  consent 
relegated  to  the  dramatic  author,  no  brim- 
ming eyes,  such  as  the  lyric  poet  describes  so 
feelingly  ;  no  grasping  for  intangible  visions, 
none  of  the  melancholy  of  the  Medici 
73 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

tombs.  But  everywhere  is  a  delight  in  things 
as  they  are,  an  infectious  gayety  which  does 
not  moralize,  but  catches  the  light  in  a  thou- 
sand colors  and  shapes,  and  brings  a  smile 
to  any  face  which  does  not  hide  a  soul  too 
abstracted  to  note  its  compelling  joy.  Just 
here  is  the  abiding  charm  of  the  minor  arts. 
^They  ask  no  questions  of  fate,  and  we  are 
asked  to  face  nothing  but  beauty  and  vibrant 
life.  And  yet,  because  these  arts  not  only  do 
not  express  sorrow  and  struggle,  disappoint- 
ment and  agony,  but  because  they  cannot ^  we 
turn  from  them  as  from  fairies  or  archangels 
and  say  that  they  are  less  than  men. 

If  the  criterion  of  any  art  is  its  perfection 
in  attaining  that  which  it  set  out  to  do,  these 
minor  arts  would  not  be  less,  but  perhaps 
would  take  a  higher  place  than  those  where 
the  struggle  to  express  the  mixed  glooms 
and  triumphs  of  life  has  left  a  less  finished 
whole. 

74 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

But  If  breadth  of  possible  subject  Is  our 
standard,  the  Industrial  arts  have  chosen  the 
sunny  side  of  existence,  and  have  thereby 
forfeited  their  share  In  the  representation  of 
life  as  a  complex  of  light  and  shadow.  I  can-;^ 
not  think  of  any  circumstance  which  so  epit- 
omizes this  spirit  of  the  minor  arts  as  the 
placing  of  the  bust  of  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
like  a  tutelar  deity,  to  crown  the  arches  of 
the  Ponte  Vecchio  In  Florence.  Across  that 
bridge  stretches  on  cither  hand  the  line  of 
cheerful  little  shops  filled  with  gems  of  vary- 
ing values,  but  of  uniform  brilliancy  —  from 
the  most  sumptuous  pearls  to  the  humblest 
turquoise — and  brisk  gold-  and  silversmiths 
are  fashioning  jewelry  from  them  with  untir- 
ing joy.  Over  the  bridge,  with  its  constant 
stream  of  jewel-seekers,  presides  the  rollick- 
ing, the  sanguine,  the  truculent,  the  self- 
satisfied  but  beauty-loving  Benvenuto,  who 
turned  with  equal  readiness  and  enthusiasm 
75 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

to  knifing  an  adversary  or  graving  the  Lord 
Almighty  on  a  button  !  Possibly  Benvenuto 
was  not  as  perfect  in  his  art  as  he  confidently 
supposed,  but  at  any  rate  a  great  eminence 
was  possible  for  him,  and  a  man  of  his  tem- 
per was  thought  worthy  of  mention  as  a 
master  craftsman,  without  that  admixture  of 
solemnity  which  appears  in  the  finer  exam- 
ples of  the  more  serious  arts.  Could  such  a 
man  dominate  music  or  poetry  or  sculpture, 
even  for  a  period  of  time,  as  Cellini  has 
dominated  the  Italian  jewelers  and  craftsmen 
for  centuries  ?  As  is  the  master  so  is  the  dis- 
ciple. Contrast  Benvenuto's  attitude  toward 
life  with  the  bearing  of  passion  tempered 
with  melancholy  which  devotees  of  certain 
fine  arts  adopt !  However  conventional  this 
manner  may  have  become,  even  a  convention 
springs  from  some  root,  and  has  a  certain 
meaning. 

If  we  grant  the  truth  of  this  observation, 

76 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

the  questions  still  remain,  Why  is  it  true  ? 
What  is  there  in  the  nature  of  the  industrial 
arts  with  their  beauty  of  material,  their  mani- 
fold expression  of  man's  interests  and  their 
feeling  for  perfection,  which  prevents  them 
from  being  the  avenues  for  the  most  som- 
bre, sublime,  or  prophetic  ideas  that  might 
inhabit  an  artist's  mind? 

Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the 
two  characteristics  of  the  minor  arts  which 
have  been  emphasized,  the  unlimited  interest 
in  substances  and  the  presentation  through 
these  substances  of  the  ideas  of  man's  infinite 
activities — just  those  characteristics  which 
are  the  rich  field  of  the  arts  in  question  — 
are,  by  the  very  structure  of  human  nature, 
their  limits.  It  is  the  material  world  which 
brings  sorrow ;  it  does  not  alleviate  it.  What- 
ever may  be  the  cause  of  gloom  —  death,  the 
fear  of  it,  obstructed  plans,  disease,  poverty, 
solitude, renunciation  —  all  these  experiences 
11 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

come  from  the  clash  of  material  mechanical 
laws  with  spiritual  demands.  Every  one  of 
them  means  a  tyrannical  check  imposed  on 
a  too  desirous  soul,  and  why  should  such  a 
soul  fly  to  more  matter,  even  though  it  be 
lovely,  when  the  inner  brutality  of  things  is 
tormenting  the  artist? 

The  major  arts  depend  also  upon  mate- 
rial. They  show  no  less  sensitiveness  to  its 
beauty  or  brutality,  but  they  limit  their  range 
of  material.  Moreover,  they  may  oppose  to 
it  their  idea,  so  that  the  whole  story  —  the 
opposition,  the  struggle,  and  the  victory  of 
one  or  the  other  —  may  be  expressed,  and 
the  substance  does  not  remain  supreme. 

Again  we  ask  the  same  question  :  "  Why 
cannot  the  industrial  arts  do  the  same?*' 
Because,  as  we  have  found,  the  ideas  rele- 
gated to  these  arts  are  all  strongly  suggestive 
of  man's  activity,  and  men  in  grief  are  not 
interested  in  action. 

78 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

The  attitudes  of  a  sorrowful  man  are  not 
drawing  soft  garments  through  his  fingers, 
toying  with  gems,  eating  and  drinking  from 
gold  and  crystal,  hunting  with  inlaid  mus- 
kets, or  handling  rich  volumes.  Since  these 
activities  are  absent,  his  thoughts  and  the 
thoughts  of  the  fashioners  of  these  objects 
are  absent  too,  and  in  such  an  atmosphere 
of  sadness,  I  venture  to  say  that  the  minor 
arts  would  neither  be  made  nor  noticed. 

It  is  a  fact  of  elementary  psychology  that 
joy  or  agreeable  mental  states  of  any  kind 
have  a  tendency  to  send  the  blood  to  the 
surface,  to  quicken  the  breath,  and  to  in- 
crease the  muscular  energy.  All  these  bod- 
ily changes  can  be  observed  in  even  the 
slight  changes  of  agreeable  stimuli  possible 
in  a  psychological  laboratory.  How  much 
more  are  they  marked  in  the  real  satisfac- 
tions of  life  outside  a  laboratory  ! 

On  the  contrary,  the  disagreeable  mental 
79 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

states  tend  to  deepen  the  breath  and  to  de- 
crease the  muscular  strength  and  the  dis- 
position toward  expansive  movement.  Grant- 
ing this  lowering  of  bodily  activity  and  tone 
under  the  influence  of  unpleasant  stimuli, 
what  would  be  the  natural  result?  Inaction, 
quiet,  contemplation,  repression,  but  never 
the  varied  movements  which  every  one  of 
the  minor  arts  suggests. 

A  man  in  sorrow  can  sit  motionless  and 
get  the  full  force  of  the  greatest  of  the  fine 
arts  without  adopting  an  attitude  in  oppo- 
sition to  his  mood.  His  sorrow  may  be 
alleviated  without  being  contradicted. 

The  same  man,  on  the  other  hand,  can- 
not sympathize  with  the  industrial  arts  with- 
out facing  the  constant  suggestion  of  human 
action  represented  as  the  supreme  interest 
of  life.  But  material  at  ease  with  itself  and 
buoyant  activity  are  antagonistic  to  his  mood, 
and  he  turns  from  them  and  calls  the  arts 
80 


THE  MINOR  ARTS 

devoted  to  them  "  minor,"  because  in  his 
greatest  distress  they  do  not  and  cannot 
sympathize. 

Thus  we  can  fancy  the  joyful  human  be- 
ing as  equally  delighting  in  his  pictures,  his 
statues,  and  his  jewels,  his  dance  music,  his 
lyric  poetry,  and  his  rugs.  But  his  mood 
changes  to  despair,  and  the  major  arts  in- 
stantly change  with  him.  His  sculpture  and 
architecture  remind  him  of  the  abiding  ele- 
ments of  humanity  which  survive  all  shocks./ 
He  sees  the  ravages  of  similar  distress  in 
portraits  and  crucifixions.  His  poetry  re- 
sponds to  a  melancholy  note  even  more 
quickly  than  to  joy.  Not  only  a  poem  of 
sadness,  but  the  same  blithe  lyric  that  he 
read  before  can  change  its  emphasis  by  a 
slower  cadence  or  a  different  tone,  and  his 
dance  music  can  become  a  dirge  if  he  chooses 
and  be  all  the  more  sombre  by  its  contrast 
with  a  dead  gayety. 

8i 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

But  how  about  his  jewels,  his  burnished 
metals,  and  his  rugs  ?  They  do  not  lose  one 
brilliant  color  or  reveal  one  hint  of  under- 
/  standing  of  any  mood  but  their  own.  One 
cannot  dampen  their  suggested  activity. 
There  they  are,  with  no  dark  past,  and  ab- 
solutely contradictory  in  every  suggestion 
to  any  mood  but  joy. 

If  the  contemplator  feels  no  obligation 
to  his  grief,  nothing  could  divert  him  so 
quickly.  But  if  he  nurses  his  sombre  view 
of  life,  and  believes  his  grief  too  sacred  to 
relinquish,  he  ignores  these  unsympathetic 
arts  until  his  mood  has  changed,  and  calls 
them  "  minor  "  only  because  they  are  less  in 
range  than  his  whole  self. 


Ill 

PAINTING 


Ill 

PAINTING 

If  we  are  to  analyze  the  art  of  painting  by 
the  same  methods  that  we  employed  in  the 
arts  of  sculpture  and  the  minor  arts,  we 
are  embarrassed  at  the  start  by  an  apparent 
change  in  the  constitution  of  our  subject- 
matter.  We  find  the  measuring-rod  which 
has  served  us  easily  is  now  attempting  a  task 
which  it  cannot  so  well  perform. 

Our  first  question  is  to  be  as  before, "  Of 
what  material  is.  our  art  constructed?"  and 
we  are  placed  at  the  threshold  of  a  picture 
gallery  and  told  to  wander  through  it  and  to 
answer  the  question  for  ourselves. 

There  are  on  the  walls  many  canvases  and 
panels  in  wooden  and  gilded  frames,  with 
paint  applied  in  various  manners.  Some- 
85 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

times  we  see  pictures  in  colored  chalks  and 
again  the  wall  itself  is  decorated,  the  plaster 
itself  serving  as  a  ground,  or  in  some  cases 
the  canvas  is  laid  upon  the  plaster. 

Turning  from  the  material  used  to  the 
forms  which  are  represented,  we  can  detect 
no  uniformity  in  subject-matter,  for  every 
possible  object  seems  to  be  represented, 
from  the  simplest  portrait  to  the  most 
complex  grouping  in  landscape  or  interior. 
The  inevitable  answer  to  our  first  question, 
*' What  is  the  material  medium  of  the  art?  " 
must  be,  "canvas,  paper,  paint,  oil,  chalk." 
But  this  answer  has  a  strange  sound,  as  if  it 
were  a  summary  of  the  materials  of  the  art 
in  only  the  most  formal  sense.  To  say  that 
stone  and  bronze  are  the  materials  of  sculp- 
ture, that  gold  and  jewels  are  the  substances 
of  the  jeweler's  art  comes  as  no  shock  to 
the  dignity  of  these  arts.  But  when  we  do  the 
analogous  thing  in  the  art  of  painting,  the 
86 


PAINTING 

tendency  is  to  protest  at  once, "  Not  oils  or 
pigments  on  paper  or  plaster,'  but  the  forms 
and  colors  of  these  pigments.  The  material 
itself,  save  in  its  technical  side,  is  of  no  im- 
portance." What  right  have  we,  however,  to 
make  any  such  distinction  in  painting?  Of 
course  it  is  the  color  of  these  materials  in 
which  we  are  interested,  but  so  it  is  the 
color  and  the  outline  of  the  gold  and  gems 
that  delight  us  in  jewel-work,  and  the  color, 
outline,  and  surface  of  the  marble  which 
satisfy  us  in  sculpture.  Why  should  we,  then, 
be  forced  to  give  the  abstraction  of  color 
as  painting's  material  expression,  when  we 
do  not  say  of  sculpture,  architecture,  or  the 
minor  arts,  as  we  well  might,  that  their  mate- 
rials are  colors,  lights,  shadows,  or  surfaces  ? 
Why  cannot  we  state  frankly  that,  as  the  ma- 
terial of  cathedral  architecture  is  stone,  metal, 
and  glass,  so  a  fresco  is  built  of  plaster  and 
pigment;  and  why  is  notour  statement  as 

87 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

satisfactory  ?  That  it  is  not  as  satisfactory 
I  believe  we  shall  agree,  but  we  must  in- 
quire more  closely  to  find  what  change  has 

/taken  place.  Why  must  we  become  less  ob- 
jective in  a  discussion  of  painting,  and  sub- 
stitute for  the  term  substance^  the  sensations 
of  color  and  light  to  which  that  substance 

.    gives  rise  ? 

We  cannot  for  an  instant  believe  that  cer- 
tain arts  have  a  material  element  and  that 
others  present  an  idea  with  no  dependence 
on  a  material  medium.  But  it  is  obvious 
that  the  arts  of  sculpture  and  architecture 
represent  not  only  an  idea  which  in  some 
way  peculiarly  harmonizes  with  the  medium 
in  which  it  lives,  but  they  also  exhibit  the 
spirit  of  the  substance  itself;  whereas  in  the 
arts  of  painting,  literature,  and  music,  this 
is  far  less  true. 

^     Thus  a  statue  of  a  nude  boy  in  marble  or 
bronze  represents  not  only  the  possibilities 
88 


PAINTING 

of  vigorous  boyhood,  but  the  poetry  of  stone 
and  metal.  Even  though  the  stone  is  pri- 
marily for    the  purpose  of  exhibiting  the 
enduring  spirit  of  eternal  youth,  the  figure 
is  also  to  some  extent  a  vehicle  for  exploit- > 
ing  the  vitality  of  stone  and  metal.    The  ^ 
human  figure  is  thus  not  the  only  speaker, 
but  there  is  a  duet  of  organic  with  the  in- 
organic, in  which  the  less  articulate  stone  is^ 
by  no  means  unheard. 

The  same  is  true  in  architecture,  where 
the  ponderous  battlement  tells  a  story  even 
in  ruins ;  where  size,  and  weight,  and  thrusts 
—  even  lacking  in  structural  plan  —  can  make 
an  architectural  appeal.  Surely  the  material 
of  the  minor  arts  can  make  this  harmonious 
but  independent  impression.  Their  materials 
are  often  beautiful  without  formal  arrange- 
ment. 

But  when  we  approach  painting  as  a  fine 
art,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  paint  as 
89 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

paint,  canvas  as  canvas,  plaster  as  plaster, 
makes  any  appeal  whatever. 

The  canvas  and  the  paint  must  be  present 
to  support  the  picture,  as  the  bolts  may  re- 
inforce masonry,  but  the  effect  of  the  paint- 
ing has  been  independent  of  its  material 
medium  in  this  sense.  It  does  not  combine 
within  itself  a  double  message.  An  altar 
piece  does  not  interpret  the  spirit  of  the 
saints  and  the  spirit  of  paint.  We  do  not 
face  the  unhewn  block  and  tubes  of  pig- 
ment with  the  same  emotion.  With  the 
block  of  stone  and  the  sculptor*s  model  we 
have  two  spirits  to  harmonize,  two  voices  each 
chanting  of  its  own  essence.  With  the  pal- 
ette and  the  painter's  model,  be  he  the  same 
model  in  the  two  cases,  a  change  has  taken 
place  in  our  attitude  toward  the  situation. 
We  have  not  two  spirits,  but  only  one.  The 
paint  and  canvas  are  wholly  servants  to  the 
model.  The  canvas  is  too  humble  to  sing 
90 


PAINTING 

of  canvas,  and  the  paint  has  no  message  to 
impart  of  its  own  inner  self.  Therefore,^ 
we  can  see  that,  while  painting  is  no  less 
dependent  on  her  material  than  the  arts 
of  sculpture  and  architecture,  she  is  less 
dependent  on  the  spirit  of  her  material  or 
upon  the  message  of  her  substance.  She 
loses  and  gains  by  this  difference  in  appeal. 
She  loses  that  grandeur  in  which  a  material 
force,  met  face  to  face,  will  always  clothe 
itself,  but  curiously  enough  she  gains  a  para- 
doxical advantage  by  this  change  from  a  sub- 
stance-idea duet  to  a  purely  ideal  solo !  Since/ 
she  does  not  and  cannot  give  us  a  mes- 
sage from  matter  itself,  she  can  represent  it. 
Since  paint  and  chalk  and  paper  and  plaster 
have  so  modestly  withdrawn  their  own  indi- 
vidualities from  the  art  product  that  as  sub- 
stance they  can  be  ignored,  at  once  by  a 
strange  shift  it  becomes  possible  for  paint  to 
paint  itself;  that  is,  to  paint,  if  it  will,  a  table 
91 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

covered  with  paints,  or  to  paint  a  repre- 
sentative of  any  material  substance  which 
it  chooses,  while  sculpture,  being  the  art  of 
inorganic  substance,  can  never  represent  in- 
organic things  independently,  but  only  that 
which  is  the  furthest  removed  from  the 
inorganic  that  is,  the  living  form. 

It  is  a  curious  compensation  of  the  arts. 
Express  the  spirit  of  material  substance  by 
presenting  it,  and  you  sacrifice  the  possibility 
of  expressing  it  by  representation.  Or,  on 
the  other  hand,  suppress  the  presentation  of 
material  in  the  raw,  and  you  may  represent  it 
as  much  as  you  please.  It  is  not  a  piece  of 
landscape  from  which  a  landscape  may  be 
hewn ;  not  a  boulder  in  which  the  spirit  of 
rocks  may  be  expressed.  But  colored  sub- 
stances, made  from  one  cares  not  what,  can 
represent  the  landscape  and  the  cliff,  and  ma- 
terial form  without  life  becomes  subject  for 
art  only  in  a  material  which  has  ceased,  so 
92 


PAINTING 

far  as  in  It  lies,  to  have  a  life  of  its  own 
at  all. 

For  this  reason  we  slip  unconsciously  into^ 
the  convention  of  calling  color,  and  not  the 
colored  substance,  the  material  of  painting. 
We  schematize  our  visual  sensations  accord- 
ing to  their  hue,  their  value,  and  their  satu- 
ration, just  as  we  formalize  color  schemes  in 
a  laboratory.  We  abstract  their  color  quality^ 
from  all  their  other  sensory  characteristics, 
and  have  thereby,  as  it  were,  already  idealized 
our  material  before  we  have  begun  to  use  it. 
Our  material  medium  is  thus  becoming,  not 
less  important  in  technic,  but  more  subordi- 
nate in  significance.  Our  paintings  may  shift 
from  wood  or  plaster  to  canvas,  without  seri- 
ous change,  in  a  manner  quite  impossible  to 
imagine  in  sculpture.  Moreover,  the  absolute 
size,  which  makes  such  a  difference  in  sculp- 
ture and  architecture,  does  not  figure  as  sig- 
nificantly in  painting.  Size  again,  as  well  as 
93 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

weight,  are  distinctly  substantial  concerns. 
Matter  is  expressing  its  own  essence  when  it 
impresses  us  by  its  rigidity,  its  size,  its  weight, 
and  pressure,  and  the  fact  that  we  classify 
statues  quite  defensibly  as  figurines,  at  an  ab- 
solute size  where  a  painting  has  by  no  means 
become  a  miniature,  shows  that  we  are  not  as 
sensitive  to  this  factor  in  the  art  of  painting. 
Of  course,  in  a  general  sense,  there  must  be 
a  relation  in  the  size  of  any  art  objects  to  the 
size  of  human  beings,  or  to  the  size,  more 
especially,  of  the  picture  which  any  object  at 
a  visible  distance  throws  upon  the  human 
/retina.  But  in  painting,  the  figures  may  be 
large,  as  in  a  Michael  Angelo  fresco,  or  small, 
as  in  a  Mantegna  easel  picture;  heavy,  as  in 
painted  plaster,  or  light,  as  in  painted  wood ; 
huge  in  immediate  foreground,  or  tiny  on  the 
horizon ;  and  we  think  little  of  it.  We  begin 
to  note  a  change  of  size  only  when  the  whole 
work  approaches  the  cameo  size  of  minia- 
94 


PAINTING 

tures.  Because  we  do  not  concern  ourselves 
with  size  until  so  great  a  divergence  from  life 
has  taken  place,  we  have  proved  ourselves 
relatively  indifferent  to  the  spatial  demands 
of  substance. 

Apparently,  then,  it  is  not  so  pertinent  to 
inquire  how  large,  how  heavy,  how  small,  or 
how  light  our  painted  art  objects  must,  or 
may,  be  made.  By  passing  beyond  these  de-/ 
mands,  we  have  gained  a  freedom  of  repre- 
sentation so  great  that  at  first  it  may  seem 
unlimited.  We  have  found  that  we  may  not 
carve  landscapes,  but  we  may  paint  them ;  we 
cannot  make  statues  of  interiors,  but  we  may 
make  pictures  of  them  ;  we  do  not  (save  in 
decoration)  carve  groups  of  still-life  objects, 
but  we  may  paint  them ;  we  cannot  to  advan- 
tage perpetuate  in  stone  the  individual  tricks 
of  costume  and  activity,  which  we  have  a 
right  to  represent  in  painting  as  much  as  we 
like.  Moreover,  the  living  forms  to  which 
95 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

sculpture  devotes  herself  may  also  become 
models  for  painting,  with  the  nudity  of  a 
sculptural  background  or  the  richness  of  the 
minor  artist's  craft,  according  to  the  painter's 
fancy.  Is  there  anything,  then,  that  painting 
may  not  do  ?  Have  we  here  an  art  with  no 
ideal  limits  ? 
//  To  state  a  universal  fact  is  to  state  an 
obvious  one,  and  in  so  doing,  one  ventures 
perilously  near  to  platitudes.  We  are,  how- 
ever, concerned  throughout  our  aesthetics 
with  truths  so  obvious  that  they  are  ordinar- 
ily overlooked,  and  the  reasons  for  the  limits 
of  painting  and  sculpture  fall  into  such  a  class 
of  axioms.  That  they  have  »<?/been  accepted 
as  axioms  by  all  painters,  one  need  only  to 
contemplate  the  recent  Futurist  paintings  to 
prove.  Painting  like  sculpture  can  represent 
objects  only  as  they  exist  in  one  moment  of 
time ;  but  unlike  sculpture  it  can  represent 
them  solely  as  the  light  falls  upon  them, 
96 


PAINTING 

thereby  limiting  itself  to  vision  alone,  and 
it  can  represent  these  objects-  solely  as  seen 
from  one  point,  thereby  limiting  itself  to  two 
dimensions.  All  this,  contrary  to  the  Futur- 
ist creed,  we  still  believe.  Painting  has  the 
world  for  its  model,  as  it  exists  for  rays  of 
light  reflected  from  its  surfaces.  When  these 
rays  are  withdrawn,  the  painting  and  the 
world  for  the  painter  has  ceased  to  be.  There 
is  for  Helen  Keller  no  world  of  painting  as 
there  is  of  sculpture,  for  all  the  former  art 
has  to  express  is  concentrated  in  the  medium 
which  can  appeal  to  the  eye  alone.  We  have  / 
then  one  instant  of  time  for  our  limit,  and 
we  have  one  point  of  view  chosen  for  repre- 
sentation, from  which  we  cannot  vary.  If  we 
wish  to  see  the  other  side  of  the  profile,  or 
to  follow  the  lines  of  a  figure  as  they  change 
from  a  front  to  a  side  view,  we  are  again  at 
a  disadvantage  compared  with  sculpture.  We 
say  disadvantage,  but  clearly  we  do  not  so 
97 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

consider  It.  If  we  had  wished  an  art  of  paint- 
ing and  sculpture  combined,  we  could  have 
evolved  a  technic  in  the  coloring  of  three 
dimensions,  for  nothing  but  the  fact  that  we 
do  not  want  such  an  art  has  prevented  us 
/'from  having  it.  What  then  is  gained  by  a 
departure  from  three  dimensions?  Why  is  a 
translation  of  three  dimensions  into  two,  for 
certain  purposes  and  for  the  expression  of 
certain  ideas,  a  demand  which  in  its  ful- 
fillment brings  a  tremendous  advantage  ? 
Granting  the  sacrifice  involved  In  a  flat  sur- 
face and  a  one-sense  approach,  what  Is  our 
reward  ?  We  have  found  in  a  previous  chap- 
ter that  every  existing  object  has  a  double 
avenue  of  approach,  and  that  by  each  we  gain 
a  valid  though  partial  account  of  its  nature. 
By  one  we  see  the  object  In  the  light  of  the 
broad  racial  characteristics  which  it  shares 
with  all  others  of  the  same  type.  By  the 
other  we  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  Individual 
98 


PAINTING 

differences  by  which  every  man  and  every  sit- 
uation is  eternally  distinct  from  every  other.y 
In  the  latter  case  we  do  not  treat  our  model  \\ 
as  a  type  of  the  athlete,  but  rather  as  one 
youth  running  on  a  particular  day  of  unique 
light  and  shadow ;  and  in  so  far  as  it  has 
been  individually  treated,  it  has  caught  the 
kaleidoscopic  combination  of  an  instant,  and 
crystallized  it  not  as  a  racial,  but  as  an  indi- 
vidual expression.  If  sculpture  is  particularly  // 
adapted  from  its  material  to  the  former  type 
of  expression,  and  if  painting  is  the  more 
romantic  and  individual  art,    the  question 
still  remains  —  why? 

The  explanation  of  painting's  greater  op- 
portunity in  the  art  of  catching  unique  sit- 
uations lies,  I  believe,  wholly  in  the  sacrifice 
on  its  part  of  three-dimensional  matter,  and 
its  consequent  acquiring  of  the  right  to  por- 
tray material  things.  An  enriched  environ- 
ment is  necessary  to  bring  out  any  individ- 
99 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

uality.  It  is  our  reaction  to  a  complex 
setting  that  shows  us  to  be  different.  It  is 
our  reaction  to  a  simple  constant  environ- 
ment that  betrays  our  racial  similarity. 

If  we  fancy  ourselves,  bereft  of  every  sub- 
stantial possession,  upon  the  barren  shores 
of  a  desert  island,  our  behavior  would  in  all 
probability  fall  into  broad  typical  lines.  All 
of  us,  including  our  dog,  would  seek  shelter 
and  food,  and  all  of  us  would  show  fear  or 
stubborn  endurance  in  a  fashion  that  would 
knit  us  closely  into  the  struggle  of  all  ani- 
mate things  for  survival.  If  a  group  of  trees 
struggle  for  life  on  a  windy  hill,  their  leaves 
show  the  same  tendency  to  approach  uni- 
formity in  size.  That  is,  an  impoverished 
environment  does  not  encourage  individual 
variation.  Where  the  struggle  for  existence 
is  keen  in  a  social  group,  the  wages  of  the 
different  members  show  an  artificial  level, 
with  little  allowance  for  individual  differences 

100 


shed 


PAINTING'  ,; 

in   talent.     Here,  again,  an   impoven 
economic  life  makes  for  a  low- estimate  upon 
any  variations  from  the  type. 

Now  let  us  fancy  ourselves  transferred 
from  the  barren  island  to  the  complicated 
interior  of  an  ocean  liner.  We  who  had 
bayed  together  with  our  dog  for  food  and 
friends  instantly  respond  in  unique  fashion 
to  our  new  setting.  Our  first  hunger  ap- 
peased, the  bookish  man  flies  to  the  library, 
the  bridge-player  to  the  smoking-room,  the 
musical  man  to  the  piano,  the  shy  man  to 
his  stateroom,  and  the  dog  crawls  under  the 
sofa.  Material  cards  and  printed  matter, 
stretched  strings  and  a  protecting  couch, 
draw  from  us  in  a  moment  those  differences 
which  in  a  naked  setting  were  only  latent. 
Neither  side  of  our  nature  is  more  true  than 
the  other,  but  each  complements  the  other, 
and  the  cool  nudity  of  the  statuesque,  with 
no  background  and  no  setting,  expresses  one 

lOI 


THE  .SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

as  naturally  as  the  rich  complexity  of  the 
painted  setting  does  the  other. 

We  may  contrast  the  two  types  of  treat- 
ment in  particular  cases.  Aphrodite  with  the 
apple  is  a  familiar  figure  in  statuary,  and  we 
have  a  possible  Paris  in  the  bronze  youth 
of  the  Athens  Museum,  who  holds  out  so 
gracefully  a  hand  from  which  the  apple  (if, 
indeed,  it  were  ever  there)  has  dropped. 
Devoid  of  setting,  these  figures  are  types  of 
a  goddess  and  a  shepherd,  a  woman  and  a 
youth,  hardly  in  any  special  sense  an  Aph- 
rodite and  a  Paris ;  in  any  case  with  the 
vaguest  and  lightest  reference  to  a  particular 
situation.  Compare  with  this  the  sumptu- 
ous Rubens  in  the  National  Gallery  in 
London.  Goddesses  stand  in  a  particular 
relation  to  each  other,  and  to  the  bronzed 
shepherd  who  contemplates  them.  Soft  sun- 
light, rich  drapery,  sky  and  trees,  lovers  and 
peacocks,  all  combine  to  make  the  setting 

102 


PAINTING 

of  a  moment ;  a  combination  of  figures  re- 
lated in  a  landscape  and  to  each  other  as 
they  could  never  be  again  with  ever  so  slight 
a  shift  in  the  grouping  or  in  the  light. 

Perhaps  the  difference  in  treatment  is 
never  more  striking  than  in  the  great  repre- 
sentations of  death  in  the  two  arts.  The 
Crucifixion  of  Fra  Angelico  in  Florence, 
the  Pieta  of  Titian  in  the  Louvre,  or  the 
touching  Pieta  of  Bellini  in  Milan,  all  of 
these  represent  the  intensity  of  passion  which 
particular  saints  and  sorrowing  friends  felt 
in  the  moment  of  a  great  bereavement.  The 
unbearable  parting,  the  protest  against  a 
rupture  of  human  ties,  are  all  represented 
in  those  and  in  other  of  the  most  famous 
painted  representations  of  death. 

Equally  touching,  but  as  far  as  possible 

opposed  in  conception,  is  the  spirit  which 

breathes  from  such  a  relief  as  the  parting  of 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice.  No  passionate  pro- 

103 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

test  here,  but  the  gentle  crystallized  gravity 
of  the  whole  race,  that  would  not  die,  neither 
would  it  live  forever.  Behind  the  figure  of 
the  woman  is  the  great  human  family  drawn 
in  two  directions  —  with  Orpheus  toward  a 
permanency  of  human  ties,  or  with  Hermes, 
since  an  eternal  human  life  is  not  desirable, 
to  a  life  with  the  immortals.  It  is  this  philo- 
sophic perspective  of  sculpture,  the  mellow- 
ing of  a  race  experience  through  which  it 
views  life,  which  relegates  it  so  inevitably 
from  our  houses  to  our  temples  and  public 
places.  Our  drawing-rooms  are  places  of 
individual  reactions,  and  other  conditions 
being  equal,  it  could  as  little  support  the 
tempered  philosophy  of  sculpture  in  its 
decoration  as  in  its  conversation. 

It  may  be  urged  that  we  are  comparing 
the  sculpture  of  the  Greeks  with  the  paint- 
ings of  a  different  people,  and  that  we  should 
rather  confine  ourselves  to  the  two  arts  as 
104 


PAINTING 

they  have  found  expression  in  the  same 
period  among  the  same  artists.  Among  the 
Greeks  this  is  difficult  to  do,  since  the  only- 
paintings  we  have  are  grave  monuments, 
where  the  style  of  painting  on  stone  was  so 
manifestly  borrowed  from  sculpture  that  it 
can  hardly  be  called  a  free  development  of 
painting  according  to  its  own  demands.  In 
the  painting  and  sculpture  of  Italy,  although 
both  arts  are  under  a  more  romantic  influ- 
ence, what  we  have  said  still  holds  true. 
We  can  see  that  it  must  be  so.  Since  paint-\ 
ing  has  sacrificed  the  presentation  of  the 
depth  of  space,  all  spatial  objects  may  be  its 
model,  and  the  infinite  variety  of  relations 
between  man,  nature,  and  manufactured  ob- 
jects, as  they  appear  at  one  instant,  from 
one  point,  and  to  one  sense,  are  spread  out 
before  a  selective  artist  for  his  choice.  The 
moment  chosen  immortalizes  a  conjunction  ^ 
that  can  never  be  repeated. 
105 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

How  rich  the  variation  in  painting  of  inte- 
riors and  landscapes,  sea  and  sky,  sumptu- 
ous costumes,  delicate  flowers  and  lowly 
vegetables,  jesting  clowns  and  musicians, 
saints  and  gods,  hunts,  tragic  encounters 
/  and  pastoral  idylls.  Every  turn  of  the  hu- 
man, animal,  or  inorganic  kaleidoscope,  in 
so  far  as  it  presents  itself  to  vision,  may  be 
represented,  and  with  every  shift  of  scene 
there  are  infinite  possibilities  to  the  artist 
of  choosing  this  or  that  point  of  observation, 
an  emphasis  upon  the  figures  or  upon  the 
setting,  or  upon  the  costume,  or  upon  any 
one  of  a  thousand  relations  of  one  part  to 
s    the  other  parts  of  the  complicated  whole. 

Sometimes,  as  with  Rembrandt,  the  focus 
of  attention  is  a  piece  of  armor  or  a  rich 
scarf,  or  the  high  lights  of  the  hair.  Some- 
times the  contrast,  like  Correggio's,  is  of  soft 
human  flesh  against  billowing  gray  smoke,  or 
against  shining  linen.  Or  there  may  be  mys- 
io6 


PAINTING 

terious  grottoes  and  still  pools,  the  deep 
tones  of  dusky  drapery  or  architectural 
vistas. 

If  an  artist  does  not  care  for  all  this,  if  he 
ignores  the  world  of  the  inanimate,  the  tricks 
of  costume  and  the  beauties  of  natural  envi- 
ronment, and  if  he  confines  himself  to  simple 
human  forms,  he  has  a  right  to  do  so,  but 
he  is  a  painter  of  the  statuesque  rather  than 
a  painter  pure  and  simple.  It  is  easy  to  see  in 
Angelo^s  painting  the  influence  of  a  sculp- 
tor's imagination.  His  lovely  youths  on  the 
Sistine  ceiling  are  sculptural  in  conception, 
and  none  but  a  sculptor-painter  could  have 
thought  in  such  terms  of  exquisite  variety 
of  nude  posture.  The  great  painters  whose 
imaginations  were  wholly  within  their  own 
art  have  always  reveled  in  human  figures  in 
a  setting  of  costume  and  of  background  that 
forces  a  new  creature,  as  it  were,  into  our 
world.  La  bella  Simonetta  would  not  be  the 
107 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

same  lady  without  her  little  cap  and  neck 
cord,  her  quaint  costume  and  her  severe 
background,  and  she  is,  moreover,  a  paint- 
er's model  with  the  minimum  of  natural 
setting.  With  such  simplicity  of  treatment  it 
is  hard  to  draw  any  line  of  distinction  be- 
tween the  painted  portraits  and  the  sculp- 
tured busts  of  the  period,  which,  indeed, 
were  often  colored.  But  if  we  advance  into 
a  more  elaborate  complicated  art,  we  notice 
that  the  interest  in  "things"  increases,  and 
that  serious  painting  is  far  more  likely  to  be 
devoted  to  natural  objects  without  living 
figures  than  to  living  figures  with  no  setting 
whatever.  The  sacra  conversaziones  of  Bel- 
lini and  of  Mantegna,  give  us  the  poetry 
of  one  instant  of  mellow  sun,  transparent 
pools,  and  gentle  saints.  We  pass  by  an 
open  door  of  a  Dutch  tavern  or  a  prosperous 
citizen's  music-room,  and  there  for  an  in- 
stant we  have  the  gay  figures,  the  sunshine 
io8 


PAINTING 

through  an  open  window,  the  shadows  on  the 
wall,  and  the  lights  as  they  are  caught  on 
the  glistening  surfaces  of  kettles  or  cabbages, 
maps  or  guitars  —  all  made  immortal  in  one 
luminous  moment.  All  this  is  not  less  true 
of  the  most  serious  decorative  frescoes.  In 
the  great  Visitations  and  Nativities,  Last 
Suppers  and  Crucifixions,  however  much, 
and  rightly,  one  may  emphasize  the  religious 
or  emotional  significance  of  the  situation,  no 
great  "painter's  painter"  has  ever  for  an  in- 
stant forgotten  the  landscape  or  architectural 
background,  the  color  and  the  drapery  of 
the  costumes,  the  light  falling  on  flesh  and 
gold  and  gems,  the  texture  of  linen,  satin, 
or  brocade,  the  silhouetting  of  trees  against 
clouds,  or  any  of  the  thousand  secrets  which 
light  on  varied  surfaces  reveals. 

It  would  seem  that,  while  in  free-standing 
sculpture,  inanimate  nature  cannot  be  inde- 
pendently represented,  in  painting,  if  the  full 
109 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

individuality  of  a  visual  situation  is  to  be 
caught,  this  being  the  province  of  this  art, 
natural  conditions  not  only  can  but  must 
be  treated  with  full  appreciation  of  their 
significance. 

We  may  now  summarize  the  results  of 
our  discussion  and  try  to  force  it  into  a 
formula :  — 
/  Painting  is  the  representation  in  two  di- 
mensions, by  means  of  colored  substances 
upon  a  background,  of  inanimate  objects 
alone,  or  of  these  objects  combined  with 
living  forms,  where,  by  the  sacrifice  of  the 
third  dimension  in  space  and  the  consequent 
failure  to  present  matter  for  its  own  sake, 
the  right  is  gained  to  represent  all  matter  in 
its  complexity  of  relations,  and  thereby  to 
catch  the  individuality  of  any  visual  moment 
V     and  to  render  it  immortal. 


IV 

MUSIC 


IV 

MUSIC 

In  the  art  of  music  we  face  what  is  in  some 
respects  the  most  difficult  problem  in  our 
aesthetical  analysis.  Here  is  a  system  of 
sounds  ranging  from  a  simple  succession 
of  pitches  in  an  isolated  melody  to  the  most 
complicated  orchestral  harmony,  capable  of 
an  emotional  appeal  which  is  equal  if  not 
superior  to  any  other  art,  and  yet  which 
is  singularly  elusive  when  one  attempts  to 
formulate  its  significance. 

What  does  music  mean  ?  What  thought  \ 
does  it  convey  ?  How  can  we  call  intelligent 
any  exercise  which  consists  of  listening  to 
sounds  which  we  are  unable  to  interpret  as 
conveying  a  definite  rational  idea  ?  We  may 
enjoy  a  prelude,  a  sonata,  a  quartette,  or  a 
113 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

symphony ;  but  after  it  is  over,  how  can  we 
give  a  coherent  account  of  what  we  have  got 
from  it  ?  Why,  if  we  cannot  do  so,  have  we 
a  right  to  consider  that  such  an  art  conveys 
a  rational  message  ? 

We  are  attempting  in  this  analysis,  as  in 
the  former  studies,  to  face  the  experience  of 
this  art  with  the  fresh  eyes  of  a  newcomer  to 
our  planet,  who  is  impartially  sensitive  and 
curious,  and  who  understands  nothing.  We 
observe  that  music  figures  largely  in  the  life 
of  the  race.  We  see  not  only  that  it  beguiles 
the  simplest  labor  or  leisure,  but  that  it  is 
thought  worthy  to  occupy  the  attention  of 
men  on  the  most  important  occasions  of  their 
lives.  They  are  christened  and  married  and 
prayed  over  and  marched  to  war  and  cele- 
brated and  buried  to  music,  as  if  in  some 
fashion  well-ordered  sound  was  the  appro- 
priate accompaniment  of  all  the  activities  of 
the  human  family.  But  why  this  is  so  is 
114 


MUSIC 

certainly  not  obvious.  The  first  questions 
are,  as  they  have  been  heretofore  in  our  study 
of  the  new  art,  "  What  is  music  made  of? " 
"  What  is  the  material  medium  in  which  it 
lives  ?  '*  and  as  we  review  the  instruments 
by  which  music  is  produced,  we  find  an 
extraordinary  list,  practically  an  unlimited 
variety  of  objects  which  fall  into  this  class. 
Any  object  which  can  be  made  to  vibrate 
regularly,  and  thus  produce  a  tone,  can 
legitimately  become  a  medium  for  musical^ 
expression.  Metal  and  gut  strings,  wooden  ^ 
and  brass  instruments,  thin  wooden  reeds, 
stretched  membranes,  and  brazen  disks; 
these  and  many  other  contrivances  are  in 
one  sense  the  material  of  which  music  is 
made.  But  the  orchestral  instruments  lying 
in  a  heap  are  not  the  real  substance  of  music 
except  in  a  practical  sense,  for  it  must  be 
granted,  at  the  start,  that  music,  appealing 
as  it  does  solely  to  the  sense  of  hearing,  has 
115 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

strictly  no  visible  medium  whatever.  In  so 
far  as  bodies  vibrate  to  produce  audible 
tones,  these  tones  are  the  substance  out  of 
//which  music  is  built.  When  these  bodies 
(^  are  at  rest,  the  material  of  music  has  ceased 
to  be. 

We  are  thus  involved  in  a  metaphysical 
difficulty  at  the  very  outset  of  our  discus- 
sion. Have  we  a  right  to  make  this  distinc- 
tion between  music  and  the  visual  arts? 
Has  the  music  substance  ceased  to  exist 
when  the  vibrating  bodies  are  at  rest  and  air 
vibrations  do  not  reach  the  ear,  any  more 
than  sculpture  and  architecture  have  ceased 
to  be  when  the  light  is  not  reflected  from 
their  surfaces  or  when  there  is  no  contact 
through  the  sense  of  touch?  Obviously  we 
are  confused  by  the  same  difficulty  which 
we  met  in  our  analysis  of  sculpture.  We  are 
inclined  to  make  a  differentiation  between 
the  so-called  primary  and  secondary  quali- 
ii6 


MUSIC 

ties  of  substance,  and  to  assign  an  objective 
reality  to  weight  and  spatial  extension  which 
we  are  unable  to  feel  belongs  to  color  and 
to  sound. 

Unjustifiable  as  any  such  distinction  may 
ultimately  be,  in  any  aesthetic  analysis  it  is 
certainly  important.  We  are  confident  that 
the  material  of  sculpture  exists  apart  from 
the  form  which  is  chiseled  from  it,  for  we 
feel  convinced  that  the  marble  is  still  in  place 
when  the  light  has  been  withdrawn  or  when 
the  figure  is  in  ruins.  We  assert  the  same 
of  architecture.  We  become  slightly  embar- 
rassed as  we  approach  painting.  We  cannot 
so  easily  name  its  material  medium.  If  it  is 
color,  we  are  not  so  confident  that  the  colors 
are  still  present  when  the  light  has  gone, 
however  we  may  hesitate  to  say  that  the  pic- 
ture has,  during  the  period  of  darkness, 
ceased  to  be.  We  become  more  troubled 
still  with  literature.  If  words  are  its  material, 
117 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

what  are  words,  and  where  are  words  ?  How 
can  we  disentangle  the  substance  of  a  word 
from  its  ideal  significance?  And  with  music 
we  are  completely  baffled.  We  are  inclined 
to  throw  over  our  assumption  that  every  art 
lives  in  a  medium  of  substance.  Has  not 
matter  that  lives  or  dies  with  the  idea,  and 
that  occupies  no  space,  reached  the  vanish- 
ing point  of  material  things,  and  is  it  there- 
fore any  longer  valid  for  discourse?  Logi- 
cally it  must  be  admitted  that  we  have  no 
more  right  to  assign  reality  to  matter  in  one 
case  than  in  the  other.  Stone  and  metal  are 
known  to  us  through  ether  waves  striking 
the  retina,  or  through  pressure  stimuli  bring- 
ing about  a  chemical  change  in  the  touch 
spots  in  the  skin.  Of  the  stone  itself,  aside 
from  these  avenues  of  approach,  we  know 
nothing.  So  tones  are  known  to  us  by  means 
of  air  vibrations  striking  the  basilar  mem- 
brane in  the  ear.  When  the  air  waves  cease 
ii8 


MUSIC 

vibrating,  we  say  that  the  tones,  music's 
material,  have  gone  out  of  existence.  When 
the  ether  vibrates  no  longer  in  a  particular 
manner,  we  say  that  the  light  and  color  have 
ceased  to  exist.  The  stone  still  exists  for 
another  sense,  —  touch, — but  so  does  the 
musical  instrument  still  exist  for  that  same 
sense.  Why  are  we  loath  to  admit  that  the 
cases  are  similar?  Simply,  I  believe, because 
in  the  one  case  we  are  dealing  with  an  art 
that  has  an  admitted  bi-sensation  approach, 
and  in  the  other  with  an  art  which  is  rigidly 
constructed  for  the  ear  alone. 

We  see  the  curve  in  the  stone,  and  we  feel 
the  curve.  On  the  other  hand,  we  see  the 
color,  but  ^tfeel  only  the  canvas  and  paint 
when  the  light  is  absent.  Hence  our  hesi- 
tancy in  saying  that  the  color  still  exists. 
So  we  hear  the  tones  of  a  violin,  but  when 
we  feel  the  curves  of  the  same  violin  with 
our  fingers,  we  find  them  the  same  no  mat- 
119 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

ter  what  the  pitch  or  strength  of  the  sound 
may  be,  and  when  we  feel  or  see  the  music 
score,  we  know  that  it  remains  the  same,  no 
matter  how  the  music  is  played. 

Since  we  have  no  clue  by  sight  or  hear- 
ing to  the  stimulus  of  the  sound  sensation 
to  be  produced,  we  protest  that  where  one 
sense  cannot  fill  in  the  vacancy  left  by  an- 
other, the  medium  of  the  art  has  become 
more  ideal,  in  the  sense  that  it  lives  strictly 
for  one  sense,  or  not  at  all. 

This  importance  of  the  auditory  character 
of  music  may  be  asserted  in  spite  of  the 
statements  of  certain  people  that  they  are 
able  to  enjoy  music  quite  as  much  by  read- 
ing the  score  as  by  hearing  it  with  their  ears. 
If  they  said  that  they  enjoyed  the  mental 
image  of  a  dinner  as  much  as  eating  it,  we 
might  safely  infer  that  they  were  not  hungry. 
If  they  enjoyed  the  memory  of  a  painting  as 
much  as  seeing  it,  it  would  be  hard  for  them 

120 


MUSIC 

to  convince  us  that  they  were  fond  of  paint- 
ing. If  they  object  to  the  disturbance  of 
music,  and  prefer  a  silent  symphony  read 
through  the  eye  to  the  undeniable  noise  of 
a  good  orchestra  striking  at  their  ears,  their 
position  may  be  defensible,  but  I  protest 
that  they  are  not  musical.  The  noiseless 
world  of  such  a  group  of  accurate  score- 
readers  would  be  an  abomination  to  a  music- 
loving  man,  for  music,  if  it  is  anything,  is  a 
one-sense  art,  which  has  sacrificed  its  very 
life  when  its  one  sense,  and  that  alone,// 
cannot  be  stimulated. 

In  another  way  music  is  a  peculiarly  ideal 
art,  in  that  it  has  sacrificed  a  material  extent 
for  an  ideal  end.  In  so  far  as  its  one-sense 
appeal  is  concerned,  it  shares  the  field  with 
painting.  Color  is  as  absolutely  an  affair  of 
the  eye  as  is  tone  of  the  ear.  But  while  - 
bodies  may  vibrate  from  twelve  to  fifty  thou- 
sand times  a  second  and  produce  audible 

121 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

tone,  the  musical  scale  uses  tones  only  which 
vibrate  between  forty  and  forty-seven  hun- 
dred times,  that  is  between  the  lowest  tones 
of  the  double  bass  and  the  highest  tones  of 
the  piccolo  flute.  Again  it  selects  from  these 
certain  tones  which  belong  to  a  scale  which 
it  has  selected,  and  it  rejects  those  which  do 
not.  Our  Western  scale,  handed  down  from 
the  Greeks,  has  eight  tones  whose  vibration 
rates  bear  a  fixed  ratio  to  each  other.  The 
Chinese  have  chosen  a  different  scale,  the 
Arabs  another,  the  Persians  another;  and 
because  even  our  musical  material  is  not 
taken  as  we  find  it,  as  is  our  sculptural  and 
architectural  material,  but  because  it  is  ab- 
stracted and  idealized  at  the  very  start,  we 
can  have  little  in  common  with  the  music 
of  another  race  whose  intelligence  has  in  the 
beginning  taken  a  different  turn.  We  can 
enjoy  the  sculpture,  the  architecture,  and 
the  minor  arts  of  the  Orient  far  more  easily 

122 


MUSIC 

than  we  can  its  music.  Substance  speaks 
alike  to  all,  but  intelligences  must  learn  to 
understand  one  another.  An  idealized  sub- 
stance, which  has  been  rigorously  limited  in 
its  possible  extent  before  any  construction 
has  begun,  does  not  offer  to  its  audience 
nature  in  the  rough,  but  offers  natural 
sounds  schematized  and  classified  in  a  serial 
scale,  with  the  last  possible  refinement  of 
material  sound  remodeled  and  whipped  into 
shape  by  a  selective  mind. 

The  intensity  of  musical  sounds  may  range 
from  a  zero  point,  where  a  rest  may  be  of 
the  utmost  musical  importance,  to  a  volume 
of  tone  that  may  actually  pain,  and  the  tonal 
quality  is  practically  unlimited  when  one 
considers  the  wealth  of  musical  instruments, 
and  even  the  individual  differences  in  timbre 
between  instruments  of  the  same  class. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  here  to  consider  the 
laws  of  pitch,  intensity,  and  timbre  varia- 
123 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

dons,  the  rhythms  and  the  repetitions,  the 
melodies  and  the  harmonies  which  make  up 
music  as  we  know  it.  All  of  them  illustrate 
the  manner  in  which  natural  sounds  have 
been  conventionalized  and  adapted  to  dif- 
ferent musical  intelligences,  and  thus  idealized 
in  the  very  substance  of  the  art.  All  of  them, 
moreover,  leave  us  with  the  questions  un- 
answered, "  What  is  it  all  for  ?  What  mean- 
ing is  conveyed  by  this  complex  of  sound?** 
These  are  the  questions  which  we  must  try 
to  answer. 

With  certain  types  of  music  it  is  not  as 
difficult  to  answer  these  questions  as  with 
others.  Where  music  and  words  are  com- 
bined, and  well  combined,  we  have  as  direct 
and  intelligible  a  message  from  the  musical 
accompaniment  as  from  the  poem  which  it 
accompanies.  In  fact,  in  proportion  as  the 
song  of  a  certain  type  is  well  done,  the  in- 
'  strumental  part  is  no  more  an  accompani- 
124 


MUSIC 

ment  than  are  the  words.  Both  contribute 
equally  to  the  effect  of  the  whole. 

The  great  German  song  writers,  such  as 
Schubert,  Schumann,  and  Franz,  offer  num- 
berless examples  of  this  direct  representation 
of  a  communicable  idea  in  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  song.  Thus  the  accompaniment 
represents  the  actual  sounds  of  nature  trans- 
lated into  tone,  or  it  presents  a  rhythm  which 
must  sympathetically  arouse  in  the  listener 
the  same  motor  response  that  the  situation 
described  in  the  words  would  arouse. 

A  delicate  psychologist  of  the  emotions, 
the  good  song  writer  arouses  the  shudder, 
the  sigh,  the  unrest,  the  suspense  of  the 
poet's  words,  by  a  rhythmic  instrumental 
sequence,  that  forces  one,  in  so  far  as  he 
sympathetically  listens,  to  fall  Into  such  a 
motor  attitude.  In  Schubert's  "  Erlkonlg," 
for  example,  the  accompaniment  begins  with 
the  sombre  beat  of  hoofs,  and  the  rush  of 
125 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

wind  in  the  bass  notes.  The  measured  tones 
of  the  father  contrast  strikingly  with  the 
high-pitched  complaints  of  the  child,  and 
against  them  both  the  smooth  blandish- 
ments of  the  "  Erlkonig  "  speak  as  seduc- 
tively in  the  accompaniment  as  in  the  poem. 
Just  as  a  person  in  fright  naturally  raises 
his  voice  from  a  low  protest  to  a  scream,  so 
the  child  cries  "  Vater  "  the  first  time  on  B, 
the  second  on  C,  the  third  on  D,  and  the 
last  on  an  agonized  Eb.  In  exact  opposition 
to  this  rising  chromatic,  the  "  Erlkonig," 
tired  of  persuasion,  suddenly  drops  his  high 
tones  which  he,  like  all  of  us,  has  assumed 
as  more  pleasing  to  a  child,  and  lapses  into 
a  sudden  low  growl  as  he  throws  himself 
/  upon  the  boy.  As  Goethe  translates  the  epi- 
sode into  verse,  so  Schubert  has  translated 
the  sound  of  the  action  into  tone,  and  who- 
ever does  not  hear  it  simply  has  not  learned 
his  musical  letters.  Schubert's  "  Gretchen  am 
126 


MUSIC 

Splnnrad  "  is  no  less  perfect  an  example  of 
the  representation  in  tone  of  .a  rapidly  whir- 
ring wheel,  of  increasing  emotion  till  the 
wheel  stands  still  and  the  spinning  stops,  only 
to  be  drearily  and  monotonously  resumed. 
Perhaps  Robert  Franz  is  even  more  subtle 
in  his  suggestions  of  the  sound  and  move- 
ment of  things.  I  believe  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  song  accompaniments  more  exquisite 
than  the  soft  lapping  of  the  water  in  his 
"  Lotosblume,"  or  in  his  setting  of  Heine's 
"Wie  des  Mondes  Abbild  zittert  in  den 
wilden  Meereswogen."  Here  is  an  exquisite 
little  lyric,  in  which  the  beloved  one  is  com- 
pared to  the  quiet  moon,  whose  reflection 
is  shattered  into  fragments  in  the  sea  of  the 
poet's  heart.  The  words  are  sung  in  an  even 
controlled  melody  against  a  delicate  dissonant 
accompaniment,  which  resolves  from  one 
short  restless  chord  to  another,  like  the 
broken  ripples  of  the  moon's  reflection. 
127 


4^ 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

Nothing  could  be  more  delicately  done  to 
force  the  listener  into  a  gentle,  fanciful  un- 
rest than  this  succession  of  dissonant  chords 
over  which  the  melody,  like  the  moon,  rides 
serenely. 

It  might  almost  be  questioned  whether 
one  has  heard  Heine,  without  Franz !  "  Mor- 
gen  steh'  ich  auf  und  frage  kommt  feins 
Llebchen  heut'  ? "  expresses  the  dull  suc- 
cession of  wakeful  nights  and  dreamy  days 
when  the  loved  one  is  absent,  not  at  all  in 
the  grand  manner,  but  in  the  plaintive  fashion 
of  childhood  or  youth.  So  the  accompani-  . 
ment  begins  monotonously,  and  repeats  two 
beats  later  on,  canon  fashion,  the  same  notes 
that  the  air  has  just  left,  as  if  everything  in 
the  world  were  happening  over  and  over  in 
an  unbearable  little  cycle.  In  "  Lieb  Lieb- 
chen  leg's  Handchen  auf 's  Herze  Mein  "  . 
the  subdued  thumping  of  the  carpenter 
pounding  at  his  heart  is  as  obvious  in  the 
128 


MUSIC 

accompaniment  as  it  is  explicitly  stated  in 
the  poem,  and  with  so  light  a  touch  that 
one  can  forget  it  if  he  will,  just  as  one  may- 
cease  to  notice  his  own  heart-beats. 

Perhaps  no  song  is  a  more  masterly  in- 
terpretation of  Heine,  however,  than  "  Das 
ist  ein  Floten  und  Geigen  **  in  its  Schumann 
setting.  Here  the  disappointed  lover  stands 
alone  outside  the  door,  while  the  violins  and 
flutes  and  trumpets  are  celebrating  within 
the  marriage  of  his  beloved  to  his  rival.  The 
boisterous  orchestra  inside  is  blaring  out  its 
own  dance  rhythm,  while  the  lonely  poet, 
out  of  tune  with  it  all,  is  lost  in  his  own 
regrets.  The  accompaniment  introduces  the 
wedding  music,  which  is  peculiarly  haunting, 
but  almost  metallic  in  its  fixed  rhythm.  It 
plays  on  uninterruptedly  throughout  the 
song,  but  the  melody  suddenly  breaks  in 
upon  it  on  a  dissonant  note,  and  with  an  air 
as  out  of  sympathy  with  the  accompaniment 
129 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

as  the  poet  is  at  odds  with  the  revelers  within. 
Never  does  the  melody  begin  without  mak- 
ing a  dissonance  with  the  accompaniment, 
and  when  the  voice  suddenly  stops,  the  wed- 
ding music  goes  on  at  its  own  mad  rhythm 
for  twenty  measures,  absolutely  regardless 
of  the  singer;  and  then  dies  down  in  a  set  of 
chromatics  most  subtly  suggestive  of  the  re- 
cession of  pitch  of  a  distant  orchestra  in  the 
ears  of  a  departing  guest.  The  dramatic  por- 
trayal of  a  mental  crisis  through  the  sounds 
that  accompany  it  has  reached  a  maximum 
of  perfection  in  such  a  song  as  this. 

In  such  examples  of  songaccompaniments, 
we  have  as  intelligible  an  idea  of  action  trans- 
mitted by  the  music  as  by  the  words  of  the 
song,  and  to  one  accustomed  to  listen,  one 
form  of  expression  is  as  articulate  as  the 
other.  Modern  operatic  music,  following 
Wagner's  lead,  is  one  long  illustration  of 
the  same  thing.  In  Wagner's  own  words, 
130 


MUSIC 

where  he  asserts  the  interdependence  of 
music  and  poetry  in  the  drama,  "  Only  that 
art-variety  which  wills  the  common  art-work 
reaches  the  highest  fill  of  its  own  particular 
nature." 

But  any  aesthetics  of  music  must  explain 
the  appeal  of  sounds  unaccompanied  by 
words,  and  hence  dependent  entirely  upon 
themselves  for  rational  content.  Here  is  its 
real  problem.  Can  we  say  that  a  sonata  rep- 
resents any  natural  sounds  modified  into 
tone,  as  the  opening  music  of  "  Siegfried  '* 
represents  hammering  on  an  anvil?  It  must 
be  admitted  that  since  most  instrumental 
music,  and  even  the  greater  number  of  songs, 
make  no  pretense  whatever  to  convey  an 
actual  representation  of  sounds  in  nature, 
such  an  aim  may  be  present  or  absent  and 
the  essential  character  of  music  remain  the 
same.  Music  will  still  be  music,  irrespective 
of  its  portraiture  of  other  sound  events.  In- 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

strumental  music  may  definitely  represent 
natural  sounds  even  without  words,  as  the 
prelude  to  the  "  Rheingold  "  represents  the 
sounds  of  a  flowing  river  ;  as  the  final  music 
of  the  "Walkiire"  portrays  flickering  fire ;  or 
as  the  Tschaikovsky  overture  to  "  Paolo 
and  Francesca"  hurls  its  victims  on  the  ma- 
jestic but  terrible  surging  of  the  winds  of 
hell.  But  even  here  the  imagery  is  suggested 
by  the  title.  We  are  given  our  cue;  and 
however  much  music  without  words  or  title 
might  be  able  to  represent  the  sounds  of  na- 
ture, it  is  certain  that  a  relatively  small  pro- 
portion of  it  does,  and  that  our  satisfaction 
in  it  and  our  judgment  of  its  excellence  ap- 
pear to  be  quite  independent  of  such  at- 
tempts. This  province  of  descriptive  music, 
legitimate  as  it  undoubtedly  is,  is  but  one 
field  which  may  be  more  or  less  entered  in 
some  types  of  composition,  or  even  at  dif- 
ferent times  in  the  same  composition,  and 
132 


MUSIC 

then  suddenly  left,  with  no  shock  to  the  ra- 
tionality of  the  musical  idea.  What,  then, 
is  the  rationality  of  instrumental  music,  with 
no  accurate  portrayal  of  the  sounds  of  na- 
ture, and  with  no  indication  whatever  in  its 
title,  as  to  the  meaning  which  the  composer 
has  in  his  mind  ? 

As  has  been  observed  by  many  writers,^ 
music  is  the  most  abstract  of  all  the  arts. 
Whereas  painting,  sculpture,  and  poetry  pre- 
sent a  figure,  a  group,  or  an  action,  and  al- 
low those  to  arouse  the  emotional  response 
appropriate  to  them,  music  presents  a  rhyth- 
mic sound  sequence  which  arouses  at  once 
in  us  a  motor  response  which  is  emotion  as 
such;  an  emotion  without  any  definite  ob- 
ject. Thus  a  story  may  present  a  situation 
which  will  cause  the  reader  to  hold  his  breath 
and  to  project  his  agitation  into  the  charac- 
ters. This  agitation  is  made  up,  physiologi- 
cally, of  quick  breathing,  parted  lips,  and  a 
133 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

thumping  heart.  These  impressions  the 
reader  attaches  to  the  action  of  which  he 
reads.  But  let  music  be  played  with  opposed 
rhythms,  to  both  of  which  the  listener  is  un- 
able to  respond  at  the  same  time,  and  the 
difficult  adjustment  to  the  tones  brings  about 
in  him  the  same  agitated  response,  but  with 
this  difference :  there  is  no  literary  object;  it 
is  the  quintessence  of  emotion,  with  no  ob- 
ject at  all.  I  may  see  the  painting  of  shep- 
herds dancing,  or  read  of  dancing  shepherds; 
but  the  simple  musical  rustic  dance  repre- 
\  sents  the  dance  as  an  abstract  activity.  Shep- 
herds may  or  may  not  be  dancing ;  fairies 
may  or  may  not  be  dancing.  The  dancers 
may  be  anything  you  like,  so  long  as  they 
would  dance  in  such  a  fashion.  More  likely 
to  the  trained  listener  it  is  simply  certain 
notes  in  a  given  key  which  dance.  That  is 
enough  for  him.  He  has  in  music  relin- 
quished his  interest  in  the  reactions  to  spe- 
134 


MUSIC 

clfic  activities  of  visible  objects,  and  he  seeks 
instead  the  spirit  of  movement  itself,  as  it  is 
the  same  for  all  objects  of  a  given  class. 

It  is  interesting  in  this  connection  to  re- 
member that  there  are  no  minor  arts  in 
literature  and  music  as  there  are  in  visual 
forms.  Through  the  ear  there  seems  to  be 
no  possibility  of  communicating  that  par- 
ticular kind  of  idea  which  the  minor  arts 
express.  There  may  be  in  music  or  poetry 
as  much  humor  and  lively  activity  as  one 
wills,  but  the  presence  of  such  interests  or 
their  expression  has  no  analogue  to  the  in- 
dustrial arts  which  express  these  interests 
and  these  alone.  No  matter  how  rhymed 
or  how  rhythmed  or  how  keyed ;  the  song, 
the  symphony,  the  sonnet,  and  the  epic  are 
equally  major  arts,  and  fall  into  no  classifi- 
cation which  broadly  distinguishes  the  more 
from  the  less  serious.  The  reason  for  this 
lies  in  the  peculiar  relation  between  the  crea- 
135 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

tor  and  the  reproducer  of  the  auditory  arts, 
a  relation  that  does  not  exist  in  the  arts  which 
appeal  to  vision  alone.  There  is  an  especial 
weakness  and  a  corresponding  strength  in  the 
auditory  arts  which  give  them  their  extraordi- 
narily vital  character.  The  arts  of  literature 
and  especially  of  music  must  be  re-created 
every  time  they  are  experienced.  But  once 
the  visual  art  object  leaves  the  artist's  hand, 
it  is  complete  and  finished.  It  has  said  what 
it  has  to  say,  and  while  its  message  will  vary 
according  to  its  audience  (the  understanding 
critic  will  get  much,  and  the  dull  man  little), 
no  one  steps  between  the  artist  and  the  ap- 
preciator.  Nothing  can  separate  them  but 
their  own  temperaments.  On  the  other  hand, 
literature  and  music  can,  and  generally  must, 
go  through  an  interpreter  before  they  exist  at 
all.  Sometimes  the  interpreter  and  the  audi- 
ence are  one,  sometimes  they  are  different 
people.  But,  strictly  speaking,  a  song  only  ex- 
136 


MUSIC 

ists  as  being  sung,  or  a  drama  as  being  acted. 
A  poem  or  a  story  may  be  read  silently,  to 
be  sure,  as  may  music,  but  because  they 
admit  of  being  re-created  by  an  interpreter, 
with  a  different  order  of  talent  from  the 
original  artist,  they  may  become  new  crea- 
tions every  time  they  are  expressed.  Because 
they  may  be  such  different  things  according 
to  the  voice  or  instrument  of  the  interpre- 
tative artist,  there  arises  a  peculiar  harmony 
between  the  re-creator  and  the  audience 
which  is  not  possible  with  the  visual  arts. 
Sometimes,  as  we  said  before,  this  may  be 
a  disadvantage.  Granted  yourself  normal, 
and  the  Elgin  marbles  in  a  good  light,  and 
you  have  all  there  is.  Nothing  but  violence 
can  spoil  the  experience.  But  plays  and 
poems,  symphonies  and  operas,  may  be  so 
disguised  by  poor  interpretation,  or  so  glori- 
fied by  skillful  interpretation,  that  sometimes 
you  are  getting  one  thing  and  sometimes 
137 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

another.  Often  a  variety  of  methods  of  trans- 
mission are  possible,  and  they  may  seem 
equally  good  according  to  the  mood.  But 
here  lies  the  very  core  of  the  situation.  The 

'  auditory  arts  can  vary  their  meaning  so  as  to 
be  exactly  harmonious  to  performer  or  audi- 
ence, and  because  they  can,  because  they 
never  refuse  to  respond  to  any  human  emo- 
tion, they  are  all  fine  arts.  Every  one  is  as 
large  as  man  who  is  the  standard. 

/  If  we  begin  with  the  classical  forms  of 
music,  the  simple  melody,  and  the  conven- 
tional harmonies  of  the  canon  and  fugue, 
and  the  question  is  raised,  "  Why  do  you 
like  them?"  we  can  only  answer:  "We  like 
them  because  the  ear  likes  to  be  stimulated 
by  different  pitches,  and  because  the  recur- 
rence of  the  same  theme  is  in  itself  pleasing, 
just  as  any  recurrence  is  pleasurable."  Repe- 
tition as  repetition  is  agreeable  in  sound  as 
in  the  decorative  arts,  and  in  the  classified 

138 


MUSIC 

musical  forms,  even  when  they  become  most 
complicated,  there  is  a  charm' and  a  blithe- 
ness  which  any  regularly  repeated  action 
always  produces.  Suppose  one  fancies  a  boy  / 
running  along  the  road  —  it  is  an  insignifi- 
cant matter  enough.  If  another  boy  follows 
behind,  imitating  every  action,  it  is  amus- 
ing; and  if  a  row  of  small  boys  follow  each 
other  in  such  a  uniformity,  it  is  a  game  1 
Why  is  it?  Because  when  two  springs  of 
action  voluntarily  imitate  each  other,  it  be- 
tokens an  amiable  agreement  and  a  humor- 
ous acceptance  of  the  rules  imposed  upon 
themselves. 

Exactly  this  emotion,  produced  by  the 
abstract  presentation  of  imitated  sequences, 
we  have  in  the  early  classical  forms,  and 
there  is  always  the  serenity  of  a  game  in 
which  all  parties  agree  to  conform  to  the 
rules.  It  is  not  necessary  to  have  a  title,  or 
to  have  words  suggesting  who  and  what 
139 


d 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

characters  are  involved  in  this  changeful 
exercise.  Any  visual  imagery  which  may  be 
added,  however  charming,  is  as  unnecessary 
a  prop  as  would  be  a  musical  accompani- 
ment to  sculpture.  If  we  enjoy  any  scene  in 
life  where  particular  people  hurry  and  lag, 
disappear  and  reappear,  meet,  separate,  rise 
and  fall ;  so  in  music  we  enjoy  the  pure 
sound  presentation  of  hurry  and  drag,  meet- 
ing, separation,  rise  and  disappearance,  for  the 
sound  is  in  itself  agreeable,  and  the  motor 
response  to  all  this  ordered  activity  is  the 
response  to  all  well-regulated  rhythms.  It  is 
only  those  ill-advised  listeners  who  are  ob- 
stinate visualists,  who  will  insist  that  it  is 
moonlight  which  comes  and  goes,  or  death 
which  knocks  at  the  door.  It  is  not  moonlight 
which  comes  and  goes,  but  a  certain  theme 
as  quieting  as  moonlight.  It  is  not  death's 
knock  at  the  door,  but  the  tone  G  which 
knocks  at  the  violins,  and  in  such  a  fashion 
140 


MUSIC 

that  we  feel  as  we  should  feel  if  death  were 
knocking.  It  is  only  when  we  are  so  admit- 
tedly of  one  type  of  imagery  that  a  moon 
means  something,  and  a  note  mc^ns  nothing, 
that  we  shall  find  music  unintelligible  with- 
out a  visual  interpretation. 

The  change  from  classical  to  romantic 
music  has  the  most  direct  connection  possi- 
ble with  our  emotional  organism.  The  ami- 
able character  of  two  or  more  voices  in  the 
same  rhythm  and  following  each  other  in 
the  same  play  of  melodic  sequence  changes 
to  a  troubled  strain  of  adjustment  when  the 
voices  decline  to  sing  the  same  tune  or  to 
follow  the  same  rhythm. 

A  large  part  of  the  invention  in  romantic 
music  has  been  in  complicated  rhythms, 
which  keep  together  only  enough  to  form 
one  organism,  but  which  pull  apart  in 
such  a  fashion  that  the  motor  response  of 
the  listener,  and  thereby  his  emotions,  are 
141 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

bound  to  be  more  or  less  distracted.  The 
essential  element  of  all  romanticism  is  indi- 
vidualism, and  we  have  passed  from  a  sim- 
ple kindly  world,  where  melodies  agree  to 
play  together,  into  a  tenser  atmosphere  where 
each  voice  is  more  conscious  of  its  own  in- 
dividuality than  of  the  life  of  the  whole. 
The  romantic  composer  confines  himself 
V,  to  no  sound  world  of  amiable  agreements. 
An  obvious  example  of  this  strain  of  parts 
is  in  the  Chopin  A  minor  etude.  A  sombre 
resolute  theme  is  introduced  in  the  bass  and 
a  chromatic  air  in  the  treble,  which  increases 
in  individuality  till  the  two  parts  are  sing- 
ing opposing  airs,  of  equal  importance,  at 
the  same  time.  You  may  ignore  one  or  the 
other,  or  you  may  strive  to  combine  them ; 
but  the  unrest  occasioned  by  such  a  strug- 
gle of  warring  factions,  equally  lovely  and 
equally  obstinate,  brings  about  an  emotion 
of  passionate  combat  with  no  nameable 
142 


MUSIC 

combatants    but    the    two   halves   of   the 
piano ! 

In  a  drama  the  hero  may  struggle  with 
his  enemy ;  in  an  athletic  contest  wrestlers 
struggle  with  each  other;  in  romantic  music 
we  have  the  struggle  of  opposing  individual- 
ities reduced  to  the  last  degree  of  abstract- 
ness.  We  live  the  tug  and  strain  of  opposing 
sound  and  rhythms,  and  we  feel  that  we  have 
put  our  finger  on  the  pulse  of  combat  as 
such,  without  the  distraction  of  any  indi- 
vidual figures  to  deprive  our  insight  of  its 
ideal  essence.  The  tension  is  greater  when 
not  only  melodies  but  rhythms  are  in  op- 
position, or  especially  when  we  are  forced  to 
a  rhythm  which  is  strange  to  us.  We  try  to 
count  it,  to  breathe  it,  as  for  instance  in  the 
five-beat  scherzo  of  Tschaikovsky's  Pathetic 
Symphony.  We  cannot  accept  a  five-beat 
rhythm  readily.  We  expect  three  or  four 
beats,  and  we  get  five.  The  constant  defeat  of 
143 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

expectation  gives  the  tantalizingly  haunting 
character  to  that  exquisite  movement.  The 
opposed  rhythms  in  Brahms  are  a  study  in 
themselves,  and  there  are  wonderfully  effec- 
tive rhythm  inventions  in  Schumann.  The 
second  movement  of  his  third  string  quar- 
tette begins  in  a  three-beat  agitato  move- 
ment, agitato  because  the  first  two  beats  of 
the  measure  are  always  suppressed.  One 
expects  a  note  to  start  the  measure ;  every 
measure  a  rest  takes  the  place  of  the  expected 
beat,  and  the  result  is  a  constantly  defeated 
expectation,  which  is  in  itself  the  emotional 
expression  of  agitation.  Later  on  the  same 
melody  appears  again,  but  absolutely  changed 
in  character.  The  rhythm  has  shifted  so  that 
the  accent  comes  where  it  is  expected,  on  the 
first  beat,  and  all  is  calm  again! 

All  the  variations  in  modern  music  of 
dissonances  and  opposed  rhythms  illustrate 
over  and  over  again  the  psychology  of  emo- 
144 


MUSIC 

tlon.  Sound  sequences  arouse  motor  re- 
sponse, motor  response  constitutes  emotion. 
Let  the  response  be  simple  and  unified,  and 
the  pitch  sequences  not  too  unexpected,  and 
the  emotion  is  calm  and  cheerful,  humorous 
or  spirited,  as  the  case  may  be.  Let  the 
rhythm  be  opposed  to  itself,  and  the  pitch 
sequence  after  being  of  one  type  change  to 
a  different  one,  and  the  listener  reflects  the 
same  character  of  unrest.  His  defeated  ex- 
pectation in  sound  becomes  a  type  of  the 
pure  emotion  of  defeat. 

In  Franz's  "Im  Herbst"  one  has  been 
singing  F,  and  expects  F  again.  Instead, 
"  Mein  Lieb  ist  falsch"  suddenly  strikes  a 
despairing  Gb,  half  a  tone  higher,  and  the 
"  falsity  "  of  the  G  b  is  the  musical  fact, 
falsity  in  its  very  essense.  That  the  falsity 
in  this  case  attaches  itself  to  "  Mein  Lieb  " 
is  an  incident  of  the  poetry,  not  of  the 
music. 

145 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

/  One  might  conclude  that,  since  so  much 
depends  upon  the  motor  response  in  musi- 
cal appreciation,  the  more  motion  in  the 
listener  the  better  !  That  this  is  a  not  un- 
usual conclusion  is  evidenced  by  the  fact 
that  an  unwonted  listener  so  often  moves 
his  head  to  marked  rhythms ;  sighing  to 
dance  to  the  waltz  and  to  step  off  to  the 
march.  In  default  of  this  opportunity  he 
beats  time  with  his  feet  upon  the  floor.  That 
this  is  an  error  is  patent  from  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  the  psychology  of  emotion. 
Motor  response  arouses  emotion,  but,  para- 
doxically enough,  in  so  far  as  this  response 
becomes  extra-organic  it  dissipates  the  very 
emotion  to  which  it  has  given  rise.  To  keep 
the  humor  of  a  joke  ever  fresh,  suppress 
your  laughter,  and  let  it  simmer  below  the 
point  of  expression.  To  preserve  a  grief, 
do  not  enjoy  the  luxury  of  tears,  Goethe's 
"  Wonne  der  Wehmuth  "  —  for,  as  he  says, 
146 


MUSIC 

it  is  not  to  the  drenched  but  to  the  half- 
dried  eye  that  the  partly  suppressed  emo- 
tion retains  its  bitterness.  So  in  the  appre- 
ciation of  music.  To  dance,  to  march,  to 
beat  time  and  sway  the  body  relieves  the 
emotion  which  has  been  excited.  But  if  the 
tendencies  are  suppressed  within  the  organ- 
ism, and  are  lived  out  inwardly,  but  not  al- 
lowed to  dissipate  themselves  in  overt  ac- 
tion, then  the  emotional  value  of  the  world 
of  sounds  is  at  its  height,  and  we  live  out 
within  ourselves  the  idealized  drama  of 
human  action  in  a  sightless  universe.  ' 

Music  will  seem  inarticulate  and  irrational  "^ 
only  to  those  who  have  the  settled  convic- 
tion that  the  world  of  sight  and  touch,  and 
not  the  world  of  sound,  is  the  real  world. /• 
That  all  of  us  are  inclined  to  assign  an  extra 
reality  to  things  seen  is  proved  by  the  fact 
that  we  accept  the  verdict  of  vision  above 
hearing  in  ordinary  matters.  If  the  bird's 
H7 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

song  sounds  as  if  it  came  from  a  different 
branch  from  the  one  where  we  see  the  bird, 
we  accept  the  sight  localization  as  corrective 
of  the  sound.  Our  descriptions  are  of  the 
sights  of  the  world  more  often  than  of  its 
^  sounds.  We  are  short-lived  at  best ;  we  strug- 
gle for  a  footing  in  a  world  that  continually 
slips  from  us,  and  we  search  always  for  the 
visible  and  unchanging,  thereby  depending 
upon  vision  and  upon  visual  imagery.  So  an 
art  message  that  defies  a  visual  interpreta- 
tion impresses  us  at  first  sight  as  without  ra- 
tional content.  But  once  we  have  accustomed 
ourselves  to  a  world  of  time  and  sound  where 
space  has  lost  its  meaning,  we  can  admit  the 
rationality  of  an  art  which  mirrors  the  dy- 
namic changes  in  nature  by  sound,  as  paint- 
ing gives  position  in  space  by  color.  We 
feel  the  essential  vitality  of  an  art,  which  dis- 
carding all  other  tools  presents  to  us  at  first 
hand  the  very  kernel  of  the  movement  of 
148 


MUSIC 

life,  where  only  sounds  and  our  own  abstract 
emotions  are  the  ghostly  characters.  Our  ^^ 
world  of  experience  presents  a  chaos,  from 
which  our  reason  is  ever  attempting  to  evolve 
a  cosmos.  The  visual  arts  represent  the  static 
qualities  of  things.  They  translate  the  artist's 
transformation  of  the  hurry  of  the  world  into 
one  ageless  instant,  and  we  rest  with  them 
in  a  cleft  in  the  rock  while  the  world  of  move-/ 
ment  sweeps  by. 

Far  otherwise  with  music.  Here  the  trans- 
lation is  of  a  different  order.  We  see  the  re- 
verse of  the  shield.  Behind  the  seeming  quiet 
of  things  is  detected  an  incessant  surge  of 
life.  The  moment  which  seemed  a  fixed  point 
according  to  one  philosophy,  by  another  is 
perceived  as  a  dynamic  sequence.  Whereas 
the  sculptor  and  the  painter  immortalize  the 
static  qualities  of  things,  the  musician  gives 
not  the  active  succession  of  events,  which 
the  writer  interprets,  but  he  forces  from  you 
.  149 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  dynamic  reaction  which  is  identical  with 
that  moment.  You  do  not  so  much  reflect 
it  as  you  live  it.  Your  emotional  organism 
is  touched  at  its  very  core  by  rhythmical 
sound  sequences,  for  you  feel  that  out  of  the 
chaos  of  natural  forces  has  been  evolved  the 
very  law  of  ordered  motion. 
/  The  visual  arts  are  dedicated  to  Parmen- 
ides.  They  represent  a  world  with  no  move- 
ment, but  eternal  calm.  But  music  is  the 
child  of  Heracleitus.  Rest  is  impossible.  A 
thing  is  what  it  is  only  by  constant  change 
\  to  what  it  is  not.  Behind  the  visible  objects 
which  development  has  made  possible  are 
the  tides  of  development  itself,  which  no  man 
may  see,  but  which  he  may  hear,  whether  in 
the  thunder  or  in  the  still  small  voice. 

Any  heroic  figure  of  sculpture,  painting, 

or  literature  has  become  fixed  in  our  memory 

or  imagination  because  of  the  truth  of  his 

nature,  which  each  art  according  to  its  nature 

150 


MUSIC 

has  fastened  upon  and  reflected  in  its  own 
medium.  Thus  the  naked  youthfulness,  the 
impetuous  irresponsibility  of  Siegfried  as  a 
living  form  is  the  sculptor*s  province.  Sieg- 
fried in  his  setting  of  the  green  forest,  or 
played  upon  by  the  light  of  the  forge,  or  in 
a  hundred  other  possible  atmospheres,  is  the 
painter's  model.  His  growth,  his  longings 
for  companionship,  his  combats  and  defeats, 
his  falseness  and  his  sombre  end,  are  all 
themes  for  the  poet,  or  for  the  poet  and  the 
musician  combined.  But  when  we  enter  the 
limits  of  pure  instrumental  music,  Siegfried 
as  an  individual  or  as  a  visible  type  has  faded 
away.  We  feel  no  more  the  struggle  and  the 
disappointments  as  belonging  to  Siegfried. 
Experience  is  linked  no  longer  to  an  indi- 
vidual destiny.  But  sound  and  rhythm  give 
the  pure  rise  and  fall,  the  hope  and  the  de- 
feat of  life ;  the  loneliness  of  a  single  voice 
meeting  another  which  sings  persistently  an- 
151 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

other  song,  the  dissatisfaction  of  airs  which 
will  not  march  together,  or  the  exquisite  com- 
bination of  differing  but  harmonious  voices, 
which  unite  in  a  duet  or  chorus.  If  Hamlet 
was  uncertain,  in  music  we  have  uncertainty, 
and  have  forgotten  Hamlet.  If  Werther  had 
unsatisfied  longings,  or  if  Columbine  was  a 
coquette,  Werther  and  Columbine  are  for 
other  arts,  but  longing  and  coquetry  are  for 
music.  In  the  most  limpidly  pure  of  all  in- 
strumental music,  the  string  quartette,  it  is 
as  if  the  artist,  like  the  traditional  philoso- 
pher, had  put  out  his  eyes  the  better  to  dis- 
cern the  reality  of  these  invisible  forces  of 
the  universe,  and  had  betaken  himself  to  an 
art  where  the  last  possible  concreteness  of 
material  medium  had  been  purged  away,  and 
where  one  could  only  listen  for  that  which 
is  too  hidden  for  light  ever  to  reveal. 


V 

ART  AND  NATURE 


ART  AND  NATURE 

In  our  analysis  of  various  arts,  we  have  set 
forth  our  reasons  for  thinking  that  in  the 
fine  arts  the  representation  of  certain  natural 
phenomena  in  certain  specific  materials  ex- 
hibits the  essence  of  their  nature  with  a 
peculiar  fitness. 

We  have  discovered  that,  given  a  par- 
ticular aspect  of  the  world,  there  is  a  partic- 
ular appropriateness  in  expressing  that  point 
of  view  in  one  substance  rather  than  another ; 
and  the  result,  if  successful,  is  called  a  work^ 
of  art. 

We  find  everywhere,  in  all  stages  of  hu-^ 

man   development,  this  same   tendency  to 

translate  the  world  of  experience  into  the 

world  of  art,  and  to  crystallize  into  perma- 

155 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

nent  form  the  fleeting  aspects  of  a  varying 
world.  Widespread  as  is  this  activity,  it  has 
not,  however,  remained  unchallenged.  There 
have  not  lacked  critics  in  every  generation 
who  look  upon  art  with  feelings  either  of 
bewilderment  or  of  absolute  disapproval. 

The  attitude  of  the  first  type  might  be 
expressed  in  words  like  these:  "Why  all 
this  to-do  about  art?  What  is  it  for?  How 
can  it  be  justifiable,  in  a  busy  practical 
world,  to  spend  time  and  money  upon  a 
statue,  a  fresco,  a  decorated  fa9ade,  when 
there  is  not  bread  enough  to  go  around,  and 
when  so  many  men  have  not  comfortable 
houses,  to  say  nothing  of  artistic  ones  ? " 
Such  critics  look  upon  a  picture  gallery  as 
incomprehensible ;  a  concert  as  merely  an 
amusement  for  a  relaxed  hour;  and  a  poet, 
painter,  or  any  of  the  artistic  brotherhood 
as  anomalies  which  cannot  be  explained  in 
any  reasonable  philosophy.  "  We  enjoy  a 

156 


ART  AND  NATURE 

fine  day  in  the  country/*  they  say,  "but 
why  paint  it  ?  We  enjoy  making  love,  but 
why  read  about  it  ?  For  what  conceivable 
reason  should  we  care  to  gaze  at  nude  crea- 
tures in  stone  ?  And  why  bother  to  put 
decorations  upon  a  building  which  is  made 
to  live  in  and  not  to  look  at  ?  "  Such  an  atti- 
tude, frankly  expressed,  Philistine  though 
it  may  be,  cannot  be  too  lightly  dismissed. 
It  is  an  honest,  and  in  a  certain  sense  the 
most  obvious,  reaction  of  a  practical  mind 
to  an  unpractical  activity. 

The  second  type  of  objector  is  more  posi- 
tive in  his  attack.  He  does  not  question, 
but  he  denounces.  Plato,  who  found  it  im- 
possible to  justify  the  painter  and  the  poet, 
is  the  classic  type  of  this  kind  of  critic. 
There  is,  he  says,  one  perfect  bed  in  the 
world  of  ideas;  the  carpenter  makes  an  im- 
perfect copy  of  it  in  the  material  beds  which 
he  constructs  ;  and  the  painter  makes  a  copy 
157 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

of  a  copy  in  his  picture  of  it.  He  is,  there- 
fore, three  removes  from  reality.  He  is  an 
imitator  of  imperfection,  and,  as  such,  he 
has  no  place  in  an  ideal  republic.  The  poet's 
work  is  also  an  imitation  of  imperfection, 
and  as  such  is  without  excuse.  So  Plato, 
artist  that  he  was,  dismisses  art  like  a  re- 
luctant lover,  and  fearing  for  the  safety  of 
his  city  warns  his  disciples  to  be  on  their 
guard  against  its  seductions.  Plato  and  his 
followers  are  not  insensitive,  as  is  the  first 
type  of  objector.  But  just  because  they  feel 
the  charm  of  art  so  keenly,  they  argue  that 
so  powerful  an  attraction  is  dangerous  if  it 
cannot  be  rationally  accounted  for.  Finding 
no  adequate  excuse  for  it  in  their  philosophy, 
they  wistfully  but  conscientiously  turn  their 
backs  upon  it. 

Into  these  two  classes,  the  Philistines  and 
the   Platonists,  widely  interpreted,  can   be 
put  all  of  the  opponents  of  the  theory  that 
158 


ART  AND  NATURE 

art  has  in  itself  a  mission  and  a  message 
that  no  other  activity  in  life  can  adequately 
transmit.  According  to  their  temperament 
these  opponents  of  art  would  base  their  hopes 
for  an  ideal  state  on  religion,  philosophy, 
education,  industry,  socialism,  pure  food, 
ventilation,  baths,  or  what-not;  but  art  would 
be  dismissed  by  them  as  non-essential,  mean- 
ingless, or  positively  vicious,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

It  is  certain  that  no  defender  of  art  would 
be  so  rash  as  to  assert  that  it  alone  can  per- 
form all  the  functions  for  which  the  activities 
mentioned  above  were  created.  He  would 
not  insist  upon  substitution  or  comparison, 
but  he  would  ask  merely  for  recognition. 
Surely  no  one  trained  in  artistic  apprecia- 
tion would  so  soon  forget  a  lesson  which  is 
there  continually  forced  upon  him.  This 
lesson  is  that  every  art  has  its  own  field, 
strictly  limited  by  the  laws  of  the  substance 
159 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

which  it  has  itself  chosen,  and  that  it  does 
not  gain  but  rather  loses  in  any  attempt  to 
enlarge  its  boundaries  by  invading  the  ter- 
ritory of  another  art.  So  art,  as  a  whole, 
would  never  attempt  to  supplant  religion, 
education,  or  pure  food.  All  these  worthy 
objects  are  as  little  to  be  compared  as  are  a 
sonnet  and  a  silver  cup.  But  while  one  does 
not  plead  the  substitution  of  art  for  other 
activities,  it  is  necessary  to  analyze  the 
grounds  on  which  the  unfavorable  estimates 
of  art  are  made,  or  still  more  upon  which  it 
is  ignored;  and  to  mark  out,  if  possible, 
that  field  wherein  art  alone  can  function,  if 
anything  is  to  function  at  all. 
i  There  is  perhaps  one  assumption  common 
to  all  opponents  of  art.  They  agree  in  find- 
ing a  wide  difference  between  the  natural 
object  which  is  the  model  and  the  art  object 
which  represents  it.  Just  as  Plato  insisted 
that  the  actual  bed  or  the  practical  action 
i6o 


ART  AND  NATURE 

was  necessary,  but  that  the  painting  of  the 
bed  and  the  poem  about  the  action  were 
unnecessary  and  hence  unjustifiable,  so  they 
would  all  emphasize  the  wide  chasm  between 
the  living  thing  and  the  lifeless  copy.  The 
more  impassioned  defenders  of  nature  against 
art  express  themselves  somewhat  in  this 
fashion :  "  Give  us  life  and  not  the  cold 
image  of  life.  Let  us  see  the  sunrise  and 
the  waterfall,  and  hear  the  birds  sing,  and 
be  the  actors  in  our  own  drama,  and  live 
under  the  dome  of  the  sky.  Of  what  con- 
sequence is  a  stone  youth  and  a  painted 
ocean  compared  with  life  ?  Any  mother  with 
her  child  is  worth  more  than  a  Madonna  in 
an  altar  piece ;  and  what  is  a  cathedral  nave 
when  one  may  be  under  arching  trees  in  the 
primeval  forests  ?  "  It  may  be  said  at  once 
that  this  enthusiasm  for  natural  beauty  is 
felt  by  none  more  keenly  than  by  the  artists 
themselves.  The  whole  field  of  aesthetics 
i6i 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

extends  over  "fine  nature"  as  well  as  the 
fine  arts,  and  without  a  sensitiveness  to  the 
appeal  of  one,  the  other  would  not  exist. 
It  is  not,  then,  an  opposition  between  those 
who  delight  in  nature  and  those  who  de- 
light in  art;  but  between  those  who  love 
but  one  and  those  who  love  both!  It  may 
even  be  asserted  that  the  artist  does  not 
love  nature  less  because  he  has  room  for 
two  affections,  but  that  he  is  far  more  de- 
voted to  natural  beauty  than  any  one  can 
be  who  draws  the  line  too  sharply  between 
\^\  one  province  and  the  other.  Our  endeavor 
has  been  hitherto,  throughout  our  aesthetic 
enquiry,  to  make  the  distinction  more  clear 
between  diflFerent  classes  of  objects.  Here, 
on  the  contrary,  we  are  forced  to  challenge 
a  distinction  between  nature  and  art,  which 
lightly  made  cannot  be  so  easily  defended. 
Does  not  the  excessive  valuation  of  na- 
ture as  opposed  to  art  illustrate  anew  the 
162 


ART  AND  NATURE 

sentimental  attitude  toward  life  which  Schiller 
distinguished  from  the  simple?  Is  it  not  the 
sentimentalist,  who  is  not  natural  himself, 
and  whose  art  interests  have  been  merely 
conventional,  who  defends  himself  by  such 
a  distinction  between  art  and  nature,  and  who 
turns  to  natural  phenomena  as  the  only  free 
escape  from  a  world  of  affectation  ?  We  can 
fancy  the  indoors  man,  who  at  long  intervals 
has  politely  attended  a  concert  or  an  exhi- 
bition of  pictures  which  he  does  not  under- 
stand, as  fleeing  to  the  open  field  with  a 
breath  of  relief,  and  exclaiming,  "  How  can 
art  compare  with  green  trees  and  the  sound 
of  a  running  brook  ?  "  Does  this  mean,  how- 
ever, that  art  and  nature  are  so  far  apart,  or 
simply  that  his  art  was  not  natural  for  him  ? 
If  an  art-weary  man  sallied  forth  with  a 
group  of  strangers  to  "enjoy  nature,"  would 
not  his  reaction  be  as  dreary  as  it  is  now  to 
his  third  cathedral  in  one  afternoon  ?  And, 
163 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

on  the  other  hand,  if  art  could  become  to 
him  as  it  now  is  to  an  artist  or  an  art-lover, 
as  one  of  the  most  natural  expressions  of 
life,  what  meaning  is  there  left  in  this  an- 
tithesis ? 

It  surely  does  not  occur  to  a  child,  as  it 
turns  from  its  own  play  to  stories  and  pic- 
tures of  children  playing,  that  it  has  passed 
from  nature  to  literature  and  the  visual  arts. 
It  does  not  occur  to  a  natural  man  out  walk- 
ing on  a  spring  morning  that  his  impulsive 
singing  of  "  Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark  ! "  is  art 
as  opposed  to  nature  all  about  him.  He 
sings  as  the  birds  do  because  it  is  part  of 
life,  and  if  his  flute  were  with  him  he  would 
play  upon  it  in  as  unconscious  a  manner. 
In  the  same  fashion  he  would  play  on  his 
piano  in  his  own  house,  without  a  suspicion 
that  formality  had  taken  the  place  of  spon- 
taneous nature. 

Where  does  art  begin  ?  If  a  bird  is  nature, 
164 


ART  AND  NATURE 

is  not  a  boy  nature  ?  If  the  bird  sings,  can- 
not the  boy?  And  may  not  a  chorus  of 
boys  play  and  sing  upon  their  pipes,  their 
violins,  or  their  trumpets  and  make  an  or- 
chestra, which  only  differs  from  nature  in 
that  it  has  added  a  constructive  human 
nature  ?  So  long  as  this  human  nature  is  ^ 
natural  and  not  conventional,  no  break  oc- 
curs from  the  simplest  natural  sound  or  sight 
to  the  most  complex,  and  the  antithesis  is  not 
between  nature  and  art,  but  between  nature 
and  unnatural  art.  If  a  man  tells  a  graphic  ' 
story  to  his  friend,  is  it  nature  or  is  it  art  ? 
The  simple  Greek  poets  were  not  afraid  to 
sing,  not  of  natural  scenery,  but  of  the  deeds 
of  men  in  action.  So  children  act  dramas  of 
school  and  of  church,  of  weddings,  baptisms, 
the  kitchen,  and  the  shop.  They  are  them- 
selves natural,  so  the  world  of  action  is  to 
them  absorbing.  The  sentimentalist  in  art 
cannot  see  the  poetry  of  the  kitchen  and  the 
165 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

shop,  but  he  flies  to  the  waterfall  and  the 
nightingale  as  the  only  pure  realm  of  fancy 
untainted  by  a  denaturalized  human  nature. 
May  we  not,  then,  conclude,  that,  legiti- 
mate as  the  most  ardent  love  of  natural 
scenery  undoubtedly  is,  the  man  who  insists 
upon  his  love  for  nature  as  distinct  from 
art  has  thereby  passed  a  comment  upon  him- 
self and  upon  his  society  ?  Has  he  not  said, 
"  My  art  has  not  been  natural,  but  forced. 
Now  I  dare  to  be  honest.  Give  me  the  pure 
sights  and  sounds  of  nature,  which  charm 
without  disturbing"  ?  Or  it  may  be  that  the 
rebel  against  art  is  not  insensitive  to  it,  but 
that  he  feels  that  he  has  loved  it  too  exclu- 
sively. After  a  period  of  retirement  from  the 
world,  and  of  living  only  the  vicarious  life 
of  the  heroes  of  art,  he  suddenly  asks,  "  Why 
have  I  not  lived  myself?"  —  and,  like 
Faust,  he  turns  his  back  on  what  now  seems 
the  formality  of  art,  and  throws  himself  in- 
i66 


ART  AND  NATURE 

stead  into  what  he  calls  the  reality  of  natu- 
ral life.  In  both  cases  the  situation  is  the 
same.  Men  who  have  ceased  to  be  wholly- 
natural  sigh  in  a  homesick  fashion  for  the 
nature  they  have  lost ;  and  the  first  activity 
of  their  former  conventional  life  against 
which  they  are  likely  to  fulminate  is  the  art 
activity.  It  is  obvious  enough  why  this 
should  be  so.  Art,  being  as  it  is  a  supremely 
natural  activity,  feeding  continually  upon  the 
fullness  of  life,  is  one  of  the  first  to  sicken 
and  die  when  a  man  or  a  society  becomes 
formal  or  under-vitalized.  Conventional  en- 
counters do  not  afford  material  for  either 
dramas  or  poetry.  A  conventional  morality 
may  found  a  good  hospital,  but  it  cannot 
write  a  good  hymn.  It  shows  in  some  de- 
gree the  good  sense  of  such  nature-lovers 
when  they  refuse  to  be  moved  by  the  art  of 
an  artificial  society,  which  in  all  likelihood 
is  neither  art  nor  nature. 
167 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

/  We  may  grant,  then,  the  honesty  of  the 
plaintive  cry,  "We  are  not  natural,  so  give 
us  nature  " ;  but  we  still  protest  that  the  "  na- 
ture" which  such  men  pine  to  experience 
(unless  they  are  confounding  nature  simply 
with  the  health  and  physical  energy  of  an 
outdoor  life)  is  no  more  natural  phenomena, 
untouched  by  art,  than  it  is  a  vigorous  natu- 
^1  art.  It  is  not  the  mother  singing  to  her 
baby,  who  feels  that  the  song  is  art  as  op- 
posed to  nature.  It  is  as  natural  for  her  to 
sing  to  it  as  it  is  to  love  it.  If  she  has  not 
the  art  of  song,  she  longs  for  it  to  fulfill  her 
nature.  Moreover,  the  finer  the  lullaby,  and 
the  better  she  sings,  the  better  she  likes  it. 
Beethoven,  Brahms,  or  Strauss  would  not 
frighten  her.  The  most  exquisite  lullaby 
ever  created  would  not  be  too  much  art, 
for  she  and  the  baby  have  enough  of  their 
own  nature  to  understand.  It  is  more  likely 
to  be  the  childless  woman  who  sighs  over 
i68 


ART  AND  NATURE 

the  artificiality  of  lullabies,  and.  who  betakes 
herself  to  the  "  nature  "  of  a  babies'  hospi- 
tal. It  is  not  a  patriot  in  a  day  of  national 
rejoicing  who  finds  the  hymn,  the  chorus, 
the  orchestra,  the  unveiled  monument,  the 
commemoration  ode,  too  art-full.  The  most 
magnificent  ode  or  architecture  would  not 
be  too  much  art,  but  too  little  to  express  the 
fullness  of  his  nature.  It  is  not  the  religious 
enthusiast  who,  sickening  of  the  music  and 
poetry  of  real  religious  feeling,  turns  to  the 
religion  of  the  meadow,  and  protests  that 
the  sermons  in  the  stones  are  enough  for 
him.  For  him  the  world  of  art  has  used 
every  natural  power  of  expression  to  repre- 
sent, what  after  all  nature  both  in  and  out  of 
art  is  inadequate  to  express.  He  would  be 
no  more  afraid  that  such  a  display  would 
turn  him  from  the  true  nature  of  religion 
than  would  a  lover  be  alarmed  lest  his  sere- 
nade, if  well  sung,  should  make  him  forget 
169 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  lady  whom  he  was  serenading.  He  is  so 
sure  of  his  nature  that  the  very  best  of  his 
art  is  none  too  good.  It  is  rather  he  who 
has  missed  the  exalted  moments  of  life,  but 
who  has  automatically  gone  through  the 
forms  of  art,  which  can  only  validly  be  in- 
spired by  them,  who  suddenly  wakes  up  to 
what  he  has  lacked,  and  who  oddly  enough 
makes  innocent  art  and  not  his  own  starved 
nature  the  scapegoat !  Suppose,  however, 
that  one  of  our  critics  admits  all  that 
we  have  said.  Suppose  he  says,  "  I  grant 
you  that  some  emotional  souls  find  gratifi- 
cation in  this  art  expression  which  is  their 
nature  —  but  after  all  it  is  not  mine.  Such 
emotional  discharge  is  not  a  feature  in  my 
own  life.  It  becomes  less  and  less  so  year  by 
year.  Moreover,  an  adequate  art  expression 
is  not  an  easy  matter.  Art  is  a  laborious 
exercise  and  only  to  be  attained  through  a 
long  apprenticeship.  If  some  men  must  have 
170 


ART  AND  NATURE 

art,  let  them  have  it.  But  is  there  any  rea- 
son why  we,  who  can  get  along  without  it, 
should  add  this  burden  to  a  life  already 
overtaxed  ? " 

This  is  a  justifiable  question,  and  it 
changes  entirely  the  direction  of  our  de- 
fense. We  need  no  longer  protest  that  art 
and  nature  for  artistically  sensitive  human 
beings  are  but  two  aspects  of  the  same  real- 
ity, for  this  has  been  admitted.  We  are  sim- 
ply called  to  defend  this  particular  kind  of 
nature  called  art  when  a  man  says  that  it  is 
non-essential  to  life.  Shall  we  allow  him  to 
dismiss  art  from  his  universe  if  he  chooses, 
provided  he  stops  trying  to  dismiss  it  from 
ours? 

We  can  maintain,  I  believe  with  truth,  N 
that  art,  far  from  being  a  mere  matter  of 
taste,  a  relaxation  for  those  who  like  it,  and 
inconsequential  for  those  who  do  not,  plays 
so  large  a  part  in  the  life  of  a  rational  world 
171 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

that  it  is  not  only  inadvisable  but  impossi- 
ble to  escape  it. 

We  can  assert  boldly  that  aesthetic  laws 
are  no  more  to  be  ignored  with  impunity 
than  are  laws  of  morals  and  reason ;  and 
that  to  say,  "  I  will  live  insensitive  to  that 
high  expression  of  man's  nature,  his  art,"  is 
equivalent  to  saying,  "  I  will  refuse  to  admit 
that  two  negatives  make  an  affirmative,  or 
\  that  righteousness  exalteth  a  nation." 

If  we  analyze  natural  beauty  as  we  have 
analyzed  the  different  arts,  employing  the 
same  method  in  our  questions,  we  should 
ask  first,  as  we  have  always  done,  "  Of  what 
substance  is  this  and  that  natural  object  com- 
posed, and  what  idea,  if  any,  does  it  con- 
vey ? "  We  have  tested  certain  arts  by  this 
method  of  harmonizing  the  material  with 
the  idea  which  it  embodied,  and  it  seems 
valid  to  do  the  same  with  nature,  which  is 
art's  model. 

172 


ART  AND  NATURE 

In  nature,  untouched  by  art,  we  un- 
doubtedly enjoy  certain  objects  in  the  same 
manner  that  we  enjoy  an  art.  Both  its  sub- 
stances and  our  attitude  are  the  same.  Thus 
the  natural  bridges,  arches,  and  monoliths 
of  rocky  scenery  have  a  strictly  architectural 
appeal.  The  rocky  substance  of  which  they 
are  composed  is  an  architectural  material 
as  in  art,  and  their  forms  are  architectural 
forms.  Far  from  detracting  from  the  beauty 
of  wild  nature,  such  phenomenal  walls,  caves, 
or  pinnacles  of  rock  give  a  special  fascina- 
tion to  it,  not  because  it  is  more  natural,  but 
because,  to  a  certain  extent,  nature  has  suc- 
ceeded in  being  architectural ! 
'  So  the  natural  encounters  of  human  be- 
ings in  contact  with  each  other  are  judged, 
if  we  watch  them  from  without,  by  a  drama- 
tic standard.  We  watch  the  bargaining  of  a 
shrewd  peddler  with  a  shrewder  house- 
keeper, the  antics  of  the  man  of  all  work  in 
173 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

his  endeavor  to  charm  the  housemaid,  the 
games  of  children  embodying  their  version 
of  the  activities  of  their  elders,  or  the  group 
of  farmers  swapping  stories  around  a  coun- 
try store,  with  the  same  delight  in  human 
character  revealing  itself  that  we  do  in  a  good 
comedy.  The  material  of  words  and  sen- 
tences, scenery  and  costumes,  is  the  same 
that  it  is  in  dramatic  art ;  and  if  the  house- 
keeper, the  housemaid,  and  the  farmers  are 
only  sufficiently  sharp,  coy,  or  consistently 
amusing,  we  call  the  scene  up  to  the  level 
of  real  comedy.  Otherwise,  it  is  only  nature ! 
The  human  voice  and  natural  objects  pro- 
vide the  tones  that  are  the  material  for  art 
as  well  as  for  nature,  and  who  can  say  when 
one  changes  to  the  other  ?  Of  sculpture  and 
painting,  however,  the  same  cannot  be  said. 
The  natural  material  of  human  forms  is  flesh, 
and  not  the  stone  and  metal  of  sculpture. 
The  material  of  the  world  of  natural  scenery 
174 


ART  AND  NATURE 

is  earth,  air,  fire,  water,  fish,  flesh,  fowl,  and 
who  knows  what  else  besides?  Certainly 
their  substance  is  not  paint. 
r  If,  then,  we  are  contemplating  the  human 
form  because  it  is  real  flesh ;  and  if  we  con- 
template either  natural  forms  or  scenery, 
because  they  are  composed  of  real  fire,  air, 
and  water,  then  our  enjoyment  is  undoubt- 
edly of  nature,  and  not  of  art.  If  we  insist 
that  the  flesh  shall  feel  like  flesh  as  well  as 
look  like  it;  that  the  water  must  be  liquid 
and  the  fire  burn,  the  flowers  have  perfume 
and  the  banquets  taste,  then  it  is  true  that 
our  satisfaction  could  not  be  as  well  achieved 
by  sculpture  or  painting.  Here  the  critic  is 
right ;  and  it  is  just  here  that  the  lover  of 
"  nature  "  undoubtedly  has  his  feet  upon  the 
solid  ground  of  fact.  He  cannot  bathe  in 
the  painted  brook,  or  lie  under  the  etched 
tree,  or  derive  any  pleasure  from  holding 
the  sculptured  baby.  He  is  simply  confess- 
175 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

ing  that  the  eye  alone  cannot  give  him  na- 
ture. He  insists  upon  the  exercise  of  all  his 
senses  at  once ;  and  arts  which  limit  them- 
selves strictly  to  one  sense,  and  to  a  mate- 
rial other  than  that  in  which  the  forms 
naturally  live,  cannot  give  him  what  he 
demands  from  the  reality.  This  is  a  valid 
position.  All  our  senses  have  a  right  to  exer- 
cise, and  any  healthy  human  being  will  de- 
sire their  full  activity.  But  has  not  the  eye 
at  least  as  much  a  right  to  be  exercised  as 
the  other  senses  ?  And  when  all  the  senses 
are  active  at  once,  is  the  eye  really  seeing 
all  that  it  may  ?  When  you  bathe  in  the 
brook,  do  you  really  see  it  ?  When  you  doze 
under  a  tree  in  warm  and  fragrant  hay,  do 
you  really  see  all  the  lines  and  colors  of  the 
tree  and  hay  ?  When  you  watch  athletes  run- 
ning, are  you  not  too  interested  in  the  result 
of  the  race  to  see  their  nude  muscles  as  hu- 
man forms  ?  In  so  far  as  you  grant  the  right 
176 


ART  AND  NATURE 

to  vision,  that  finest  discriminator  of  the 
senses,  to  exercise  all  its  subtlety  on  the 
form  and  color  of  things,  you  must  allow 
that  an  attention  distracted  by  other  senses 
cannot  do  it  justice.  So  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing have  been  created  for  those  moments  , 
when,  withdrawing  from  the  taste  and  smell, 
the  temperature  and  sound  of  things,  you 
wish  to  see  how  they  look. 

If  the  distinctly  visual  character  of  the 
visual  arts  is  kept  in  mind,  and  the  auditory 
character  of  the  auditory  arts,  I  believe  that 
it  is  hardly  possible  that  one  could  assert 
honestly  that  he  enjoyed  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  nature,  as  sights  and  sounds^  more 
than  those  of  art,  provided  that  any  good 
art  has  ever  represented  them.  Does  he  en-  \} 
joy  the  sun  falling  through  the  window  on 
the  plaster  wall  of  his  room,  or  on  a  row  of 
kitchenware,  more  than  he  enjoys  a  Vermeer 
picture?  Can  he  honestly  say  that  he  has 
^11 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

seen  more  beauty  in  the  red  m  eat  of  a  butcher's 
shop  than  is  expressed  in  a Teniers  interior? 
If  so,  let  him  compute  how  much  time  he 
has  actually  spent  in  looking  at  those  sights, 
not  as  kitchens  and  shops,  but  as  light  and 
color.  If  he  now  sees  beauty  in  them,  who 
taught  him  to  but  Vermeer  and  Teniers 
themselves?  It  is  safe  to  say  that  no  one 
who  ever  caught  the  charm  of  real  light  on 
a  plain  surface,  or  of  the  exquisite  colors  in 
real  meat  and  vegetables,  ever  called  in  ques- 
tion the  value  of  Dutch  painting,  that  least 
pretentious  of  schools,  which  aimed  only  to 
call  to  our  attention  what  is  under  our  very 
noses. 

It  is  hard  to  believe  that  any  one  delights 
more  in  actual  tragedies  of  nature  than  in 
the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare,  or  that  he  has 
neighbors  more  entertaining  than  the  mus- 
keteers of  Dumas  or  Kipling.  Has  he  ever 
heard  a  natural  sound  more  sweet  than  the 

178 


ART  AND  NATURE 

shepherd's  pipe  in  "  Tristan  "  ?  Is  a  natural 
cave  so  much  more  impressive  than  the  cav- 
ern of  a  great  cathedral  ? 

Curiously  enough  our  use  of  words  belies 
us.  If  a  woman  is  very  stately,  we  call  her 
"  statuesque,"  that  is  as  beautiful  as  sculpture. 
A  very  exquisite  bit  of  natural  scenery  we 
call  "picturesque,"  that  is,  fine  enough  for 
painting.  A  sufficiently  charming  voice  is 
named  "  musical,"  a  sufficiently  striking  situ- 
ation, "  dramatic."  Thus,  as  soon  as  nature 
shows  a  particular  kind  of  excellence,  we 
indicate  our  approval  by  calling  it  artistic. 
We  can  give  no  higher  praise.  We  have  by 
this  very  speech  betrayed  our  conviction 
that  nature  reconstructed  by  human  nature 
attains  an  eminence  which  nature  left  alone 
only  at  times  can  do  by  chance. 

Art  is  barren  if  it  does  not  keep  to  nature 
as  its  model,  and  if  it  does  not  strive  to  in- 
terpret rather  than  to  modify  what  it  sees. 
179 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

The  highest  art  is  supremely  natural,  as  the 
criterion  of  perfected  nature  is  its  approach 
to  art.  It  is  a  nomenclature  of  convenience 
rather  than  of  philosophy  which  divides  them. 
If,  then,  the  best  art  is  always  based  upon 
a  study  of  natural  phenomena,  and  the  most 
significant,  beautiful,  and  expressive  in  na- 
ture is  seized  upon  as  peculiarly  fitted  to 
live  in  art,  how  draw  the  line  between  aspects 
of  life  which  grew  into  each  other  by  such 
imperceptible  degrees  ?  How  can  the  natural 
impulses  of  men  to  sing,  to  dance,  to  whistle, 
to  color,  to  build,  to  tell  stories,  and  to  re- 
cord natural  phenomena  in  natural  materials, 
become  suddenly  other  than  nature?  We 
do  not  wish,  of  course,  to  obliterate  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  practical  and  the  artistic 
sides  of  life.  Both  exist,  and  both  have  their 
unique  values.  We  are  only  anxious  to  put 
the  distinction  where  it  belongs.  The  natural 
object  in  becoming  an  object  for  art  passes 
i8o 


ART  AND  NATURE 

through  certain  changes  in  emphasis  and  in 
limitation,  whereby  one  aspect,  out  of  the 
infinite  number  of  possible  aspects,  is  chosen 
for  undisturbed  contemplation.  Natural  ob- 
jects when  represented  in  the  visual  and 
auditory  arts  (for  our  present  arts  are  all  for 
the  eye  and  ear)  are  deprived  of  their  other 
avenues  of  sense  approach,  for  the  sake  of 
emphasizing  vision  and  hearing  respectively. 
The  eye  and  ear,  because  they  are  capable 
of  finer  discrimination,  of  a  longer  stimu- 
lation without  fatigue,  and  of  stimulation 
from  a  distance  rather  than  by  contact,  are 
peculiarly  adapted  to  give  us  representations 
of  the  world  without  entangling  our  own 
organism  too  much  with  the  stimulating 
bodies.  Our  attention  need  not  be  diverted 
from  the  object  to  ourselves,  as  it  is  likely 
to  be  in  stimulations  of  smell,  taste,  pain,  and 
the  muscle  senses.  Helen  Keller  derives  un- 
doubted aesthetic  enjoyment  from  touch,  and 
i8i 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

smell,  but  with  most  of  us  those  senses  are  too 
untrained  to  give  us  intelligent  conceptions  of 
anything.  The  so-called  lower  senses  may 
all  be  involved  indirectly  in  the  imagery  of 
literature  or  of  other  arts,  but  directly  they 
can  as  a  general  rule  only  affect  but  not 
communicate.  Since  art  is  essentially  a  com- 
munication of  a  particular  view  of  nature 
from  one  mind  to  another,  these  less  articu- 
late senses  are  of  little  direct  value  for  art. 
Art  sacrifices  them  to  nature. 

This  sacrifice  which  art  makes  for  the  sake 
of  a  peculiar  message  is,  as  we  have  seen,  its 
constant  characteristic.  Art  as  a  whole  sac- 
rifices the  lower  senses.  The  separate  arts 
make  a  still  further  sacrifice  of  certain  ma- 
terials, certain  sensations,  certain  emotions, 
certain  practical  advantages  which  the  natural 
world  might  boast,  all  for  the  sake  of  the 
consequent  emphasis  which  they  may  place 
upon  a  view  of  nature,  which  otherwise  in 
182 


ART  AND  NATURE 

this  multitude  of  appeals  might  remain  un- 
noticed. For  art,  the  subtleties,  the  fine  dis-\ 
tinctions  of  nature  are  all-important.  They 
are  important  for  their  own  sakes.  It  will 
not  allow  us  to  overlook  them.  It  is  not 
willing  that  confused  practical  experiences 
shall  constitute  all  that  we  know  of  life,  but 
it  insists  that  separate  aspects  of  it  are  worth 
knowing  in  themselves.  ^ 

The  human  family  exists  not  only  to  be 
reared,  reformed,  loved,  or  hated ;  but  to  be 
looked  at,  to  be  listened  to,  to  be  under- 
stood. The  fine  arts,  by  gently  withdrawing 
men  and  things  from  the  circle  of  our  immedi- 
ate practical  influence,  make  us  see  and  hear 
them  as  we  never  did  before.  We  have  lei- 
sure to  contemplate,  since  we  cannot  change. 
Busy  as  we  may  be  with  handling  sinners, 
we  forget  what  sin  is  in  its  essence.  A  great 
epic  like  "  Paradise  Lost  "  or  the  "Inferno" 
re-informs  us.  We  forget  in  the  midst  of 
183 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

particular  disputes  the  essential  stupidity  of 
war  until  a  novel  like  "War  and  Peace" 
makes  us  more  intelligent.  We  are  only 
irritated  by  dull  people  until  the  ladies  of 
Jane  Austen  or  the  farmers  of  Thomas 
Hardy,  reeducate  us  as  to  the  charm  of  ab- 
surdity. We  may  have  been  kind  to  work- 
ingmen,  but  did  we  ever  see  them  until 
Millet  pointed  them  out? 

Is  there  any  advantage  in  truth  for  its  own 
sake  ;  in  knowing  things  as  they  are,  because 
they  are  that  way  ?  If  so,  who  but  artists, 
from  the  Greek  tragedians  and  Shakespeare 
to  Hawthorne  and  the  Russian  novelists, 
have  taught  us  how  crime  once  committed 
cats  into  varying  temperaments  ?  Who  but 
artists  have  shown  us  how  fatally  a  settled 
boredom  reacts  on  a  Madame  Bovary  or  a 
Hedda  Gabler?  Moralists  pass  judgments 
on  them  ;  but  artists  present  the  facts  for  us 
to  make  our  own  judgments.  Or  it  may  be 
184 


ART  AND  NATURE 

that  It  is  no  matter  of  conduct,  for  art  is  an 
impartial  interpreter  of  life,  but  that  it  is  a 
matter  of  lights  and  colors  or  the  subtle  sug- 
gestion of  words  that  it  wishes  to  make  more 
plain.  Perhaps  we  do  not  know  how  colors 
are  reflected  on  each  other  or  how  they  change 
in  shadow.  We  may  not  know  how  delicate 
is  the  modeling  of  a  face.  We  have  never 
thought  to  "listen"  for  the  stillness  of  a  Gre- 
cian urn,  until  an  artist  more  sensitive  than 
we  has  educated  our  dull  ears  or  has  known 
how  to  express  what  we  felt  but  vaguely.      v 

How  is  America  ever  to  be  understood 
by  critical  outsiders  ?  Science  and  industry, 
newspapers  and  cables  have  not  accomplished 
this  revelation  of  our  character.  Only  when  we 
are  revealed  by  a  national  art,  a  literature,  an 
architecture,  a  music,  will  aliens  understand. 

In  time,  who  knows  what  we  may  all  see 
for  ourselves  in  nature  ?  But  we  shall  see  and 
hear  it  through  our  apprenticeship  In  art. 
185 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

Art  does  not,  like  science,  inform  us  of  the 
world  in  practical  results.  It  simply  presents 
a  given  aspect  of  things,  removed  from  cer- 
tain customary  relations  which  confuse  its 
individuality,  and  transferred  for  the  sake  of 
greater  emphasis  to  a  world  of  its  own.  It  is 
interpreted  by  the  artist  in  a  way  to  pass  on 
inevitably  the  vision  he  has  caught. 

The  artist  is,  in  the  strict  sense,  not  a 
teacher,  not  a  reformer,  not  an  inventor  or 
a  man  of  action,  but  a  seer.  He  has  better 
eyes  and  ears  than  we,  and  it  is  his  function 
A  to  look  and  to  tell  us  what  he  sees.  More- 
over, it  is  not  only  his  function  to  pass  on 
what  he  sees,  but  to  transmit  the  emotion 
with  which  he  sees  it.  Most  of  us  are  not 
only  dull  of  vision  but  slow  of  feeling.  We 
not  only  do  not  see  the  reality  of  things,  but 
we  do  not  know  how  to  take  them. 

The  great  tragedian  presents  to  us  the 
reality  of  human  catastrophes,  and  he  does  it 
i86 


ART  AND  NATURE 

in  such  a  fashion  as  to  draw  from  us  the  pity 
and  fear  which  are  their  due.  The  sculptor 
not  only  presents  the  abiding  possibilities  of 
the  human  body,  but  he  will  not  let  us  take 
them  lightly.  He  so  presents  them  that  we 
must  be  awed  as  he  has  been  by  their  essen- 
tial majesty. 

The  musical  composer  reveals  to  us  the 
possibility  of  rhythms  and  sounds  at  play 
with  one  another,  and  forces  us  to  be  op- 
pressed or  amused  by  their  inter-relations  as 
he  has  been.  The  fact  of  the  possibilities  of 
sound  in  a  Beethoven  scherzOy  if  we  know  it 
artistically,  must  be  reinforced  by  our  feeling 
the  humor  of  the  thing  as  Beethoven  did. 
Otherwise  we  have  not  heard.  Surely  no  one 
but  a  man  who  is  willing  to  confess  that  he 
does  not  care  to  know  human  nature,  color 
nature,  sound  nature,  word  nature,  in  its 
completeness,  and  who  does  not  care  to  share 
the  emotions  which  this  nature  arouses  in 

187 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  ART 

the  mind  of  men  more  sensitive  to  the  high 
truth  of  things  than  he,  can  dare  to  say  that 
art  is  for  him  a  negligible  quantity.  It  is  also 
a  negligible  quantity  for  his  horse ;  because 
it  feeds  the  mouth  of  neither,  and  the  spirit 
is  not  hungry. 

If  any  one  protest  that  he  can  see  these 
things  for  himself  in  nature,  let  him  try  it. 
It  is  not  so  easy.  He  must  be  taught,  and 
that  not  by  information  alone,  but  by  con- 
tagion. He  must  have  daily  intercourse  with 
art  works  as  with  acquaintances,  for  emo- 
tional nature  cannot  be  transmitted  by  a 
formula. 
4""  There  are  other  things  in  life,  but  this  one 
province  is  the  artist's  own.  He  only  can 
cut  a  cross-section  of  life  experience,  of  what- 
ever sort,  and,  by  freeing  it  from  all  entan- 
gling relations,  construct  for  it  an  enduring 
form  where  we  may  contemplate  it,  feel  it, 
and  thereby  know  It. 

i88 


ART  AND  NATURE 

Art  is  the  great  sensitive  intelligence. 
Science  tells  us  what  things  were,  and  what 
they  shall  be ;  but  art  tells  us  what  they  are. 
It  transmits  the  fact  and  the  emotion  which 
is  its  due.  It  crystallizes  from  the  chaos  of 
experiences  the  relations  of  a  moment,  the 
pose  of  an  instant,  one  clash  of  motives,  one 
mesh  of  absurdities,  one  trick  of  words,  one 
of  the  infinite  combinations  of  sound  with 
motion ;  and  that  which  would  have  slipped 
by  us  unnoticed  has  been  made  eternal.  Art 
is  that  high  activity  of  nature  by  which  it 
interprets  its  own  emotional  reaction  upon 
itself. 

Only  he  who  is  so  entangled  with  life  that 
he  is  indifferent  to  knowing  it,  can  turn  his 
back  on  that  pure  mirrorer  of  his  own  ac- 
tivities who,  for  every  secret  which  she  has 
revealed,  has  still  a  thousand  locked  within 
her  breast. 

THE    END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


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